THE 


LONE 


EUGENE  P.  LYLE  JR. 


THE  LONE  STAR 


Of  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  A3GELES 


'They  were  coming  by  leaps  and  bounds  through  the  high  grass" 

\Ste  fact  4'6} 


The  Lone  Star 

By 

Eugene  P.  Lyle,  Jr. 

Author  of  "  The  Missourian  " 


Illustrated  in  colour  by 
PHILIP   R.   GOODWIN 


COPYRIGHT,  1907.  BY  DOUBLEDAT,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHED.  AUGUST.  1907 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED, 

INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 
INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Valour's  Pilgrim          ....         3 

II.  The  Tragedy  in  a  Weak  Chin        .          .        13 

III.  "Big  Drunk"    .....        26 

IV.  "G.  T.  T."         .          .          .  .       39 
V.  A  Redlander  Girl        .          .          .          .       46 

VI.  Santa  Ana,  Hero         ....       60 

VII.  A  Sobering  of  Ambitions     .          .          .71 

VIII.  The  Passion  for  Space                                      81 

IX.  For  a  Dog          .....       90 

X.  Nemesis  Preserved       ....       98 

XI.  A  Vivifying  of  Politics         .          .          .      105 

XII.  The  Dominant  Idol     .          .          .          .112 

XIII.  The  Land  of  Promises         .          .          .123 

XIV.  The  Constant  Possibility     .          .          .130 
XV.  Paul  Revere       .          .          .          .          .142 

XVI.  The  Man's  Phase  of  Trembling    .          .153 

XVII.  The  Tentacles  of  the  Devilfish     .          .163 


2131203 


vi  THE  LONE  STAR 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  The  Dozing  Colossus  of  Rhodes  .      178 

XIX.  Taking  Inventory          .          .  .185 

XX.  The  Watery  Oyster  Heart      .  .192 

XXI.  Bouquets  with  Thorns  .          .  .      200 

XXII.  Wanted:     A  Bowie,  a  Milam  .      207 

XXIII.  Three  Hundred  Men       .          .  ,220 

XXIV.  Creditors     .          .          .          .  ,229 
XXV.  A  Word  with  Nan          .          .  .239 

XXVI.  Discord 248 

XXVII.  Under  a  Black  Lace  Mantilla  .     261 

XXVIII.  Bliss  Deferred      .          .          .  .271 

XXIX.  Jolly  Colonel  Malaprop            .  .     285 

XXX.  Beleaguered          ....      297 

XXXI.  A  Species  of  Atonement         .  .310 

XXXII.  One  Sunday  Morning  in  Church  .     321 

XXXIII.  The  Master  Craftsman            .  .343 

XXXIV.  "The  Dear  Prerogative  of  Life"  .     354 
XXXV.  The  Goliad  Matins         .          .  .369 

XXXVI.  "The  Runaway  Scrape"         .  .     379 

XXXVII.  The  Eve  of  San  Jacinto          .  -394 

XXXVIII.  "  One  Illustrious  Day  "            .  .     410 

XXXIX.  Conclusion             .          .          .  .425 


SOME  OF  THE  CHARACTERS 

HARRY  RIPLEY, 

A  pilgrim  of  valour  in  Texas,  who  would 
achieve  courage,  and  climb  to  communion  with 
the  demigods. 

PHIL  RIPLEY, 

Of  the  New  ..Orleans  Grays,  his  powder-can  of 
a  younger  brother. 

ROSALIE, 

The  sweet  girl  left  behind,  bereft  even  of  a 
thinking  part. 

NAN    BUCKALEW, 

A  Redlander  girl  from  up  around  Nacogdoches, 
for  whom  men  must  be  to  valour  born. 

OLD  MAN  BUCKALEW, 

The  mild  porcupine  who  is  her  father. 

DEAF  SMITH, 

Scout,  the  omniscience  of  the  revolution. 

LUSH  YANDELL, 

A  desperado  of  the  Neutral  Ground. 

MR.    GRITTON, 

Dense,     supercilious,    and    insufferable;     aware 
of  no  man's  existence  other  than  his  own. 
vii 


viii  THE  LONE  STAR 

THE  COLOSSAL  HERO  GROUP  OF  TEXAS: 
SAM  HOUSTON 
JIM  BOWIE 
DAVY  CROCKETT 
BEN  MILAM 
WILL  TRAVIS,  and 
STEPHEN   AUSTIN,  who  is  the  Father  of  Texas. 

JAMES  BONHAM,        .     The  Alamo's  messenger  of  hope. 

LIEUTENANT  ALMERON  DICKINSON, 

In  the  Alamo  with   his  wife   and  his  child,  the 
Child  of  the  Alamo. 

JACK  SHACKLBFORD,      .     Captain  of  the  Red  Rovers. 

JACK  CASTLEMAN, 

Old  Indian  fighter  and  misanthrope,  whom  civ- 
ilisation is  crowding  to  the  edge  of   the  world. 

CAPTAIN  HENRY  BROWN  AND  WACO  BROWN, 

Indian  traders. 
SETTLERS  AT  DE  WITT'S: 

MAJ.  JAMES  KERR,  Surveyor  and  acting  empresario 

BYRD  LOCKHART,         .         .        Deputy  surveyor 

ZEKE  WILLIAMS,          ....    Alcalde 

AL  MARTIN,         ....       Storekeeper 

OLD  PAINT  CALDWELL 

VAL  BENNET 

GEORGE  COTTLE 

DAN  McCoY 

Doc  JAMES  MILLER 

JOHN  SOWELL,        .  .          .       Blacksmith 

COLONEL  ALMONTE,     .          Santa  Ana's  favourite  aide. 


THE  LONE   STAR  ix 

His     EXCELLENCY     OF     THE     SUPERLATIVE     DEGREE, 
SANTA    ANA, 

President  General-in-Chief,  the  H ombre  Funesto 
of  Mexico. 

LORENZO  DE  ZAVALA, 

Governor  of  the  State  of  Mexico,  and  later  Vice- 
President  of  the  Republic  of  Texas. 

MRS.  JANE  LONG, 

A  brave  filibuster's  widow. 

SENORA  ALVAREZ, 

The  Texans'  angel  of  mercy  at  Goliad. 

COLONEL  FANNIN, 

One  of  four  hundred  martyrs. 

YAPPE  (Lagniappe), 

Short  for  good  measure,   Harry  Ripley's  black 
friend. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"They  were  coming  by  leaps  and  bounds  through 

the  high  grass"  ....         Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"  'And  be  a  Mexican  citizen,  a  Mexican?'  "        .         72 

"  I  was  the  firebrand,  lighting  the  blaze  to  sweep 

the  wilderness"  .         .         .         .         .         .148 

"  'Well,  good-bye,'  she  said  wearily"        .         .        246 


THE  LONE  STAR 


CHAPTER   I 
VALOUR'S  PILGRIM 

THE  white  men  numbered  exactly  eleven  and 
Bowie's  nigger  Jim,  and  the  hundred  and  sixty- 
four  Indians  screeching  like  thirsty  vampires  of  Hell 
around  them  on  the  prairie  were  desirous  of  an  even 
dozen  scalps.  But  the  eleven  lone  white  men  beat 
them  off. 

This  is,  to  be  sure,  rather  a  brash  way  to  start.  But 
we  are  in  Texas  now,  you  must  remember,  and  you  may 
as  well  brace  yourself  at  once  against  the  wonder  of 
astounding  deeds.  You  don't  know,  you  know,  who 
those  eleven  men  were.  Yet,  as  Davy  Crockett  would 
say,  they  were  the  real  half-horse,  half-alligator  breed, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  the  steamboat,  as  grows  nowhere  else 
on  the  face  of  the  universal  earth,  and  are  just  about  the 
backbone  of  North  America.  Nor  do  you  know  yet  who 
the  man  was  who  led  them,  the  genius  incarnate  when 
it  came  to  desperate  odds,  or  you  would  not  marvel  so 
much. 

Besides,  since  the  thing  really  and  truly  happened, 
what  then  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  Protest 
as  you  will,  yet  Fate  knows  no  apology  for  the  overbold, 
the  stupendous,  the  improbable,  that  she  orders.  Nor 
need  the  troubadour  stammer  excuses,  either,  so  long 
as  he  can  parade  the  sterling  mark  of  Fact.  He  is  a 
lucky  troubadour,  though.  His  eleven  lone  white  men 
are  ready  found,  and  just  the  label  "It  Really  Hap- 
pened," suggests  the  extraordinary  race  from  which 
they  must  have  sprung.  He  does  not  even  long  to 


4  THE  LONE  STAR 

compare  tnem  with  fable-swollen  heroes.  That  would 
be  the  disaster  abhorred  of  his  art — anti-climax.  We 
behold  the  eleven  white  men  at  work,  which  is  enough. 
Cotton  balls  of  smoke  puff  up,  and  hover  over  the  little 
scrubby  timber  island  where  the  Americans  lie  hidden, 
and  the  naked  redskins  on  mustangs  circle  round  and 
round,  and  yelp  blood  chants.  The  white  men  are 
very  earnest;  and  they  are  a  little  out  of  humour, 
perhaps.  They  might  be  sullen  cobblers,  driving  pegs 
overtime — except  when  one  of  them  is  hit.  Then  the 
bloodshed  gets  personal.  A  Berserker  in  fringed  raw- 
hide leaps  from  cover.  "Where's  the  reddie  that  done 
that?"  he  roars,  as  though  every  demon  out  there  were 
not  possessed  of  exactly  the  same  intention.  "Show 
me  the  one  'et  killed  Mack!  There,  Mack,  they  killed 
Mack!"  It  was  a  voracious  stomach  for  fighting  that 
those  men  had.  That  all  of  them  had,  except  one.  .  . 

The  one  whose  stomach  was  not  for  fighting  was  only 
just  beginning  to  realise  the  same.  But  he  knew  it  now. 
He  knew  it  in  the  deathly  retching  of  his  soul,  in  his 
soul's  panic  to  be  away  from  there,  one  little  mile  away 
across  the  broad  range,  which  had  so  many,  many  miles 
to  spare.  But  Geography  is  inexorable.  Of  all  the 
world's  acres,  a  man  with  his  boots  on  requires  for  dying 
only  so  much  as  is  covered  by  his  shadow  at  high  noon. 
The  exception  of  the  eleven  white  men  blindly  picked 
the  flint  of  his  rifle.  He  knew  terror  indeed,  but  that 
which  brought  the  tears  was  the  loathing  of  self. 

However,  he  was  not  altogether  a  man  grown  as  yet. 
He  did  not  have  the  man's  poise,  and  the  discovery 
astounded  him.  "  'To  mix  in  fight,'  "  he  had  said  to 
himself,  quoting  valorous  authority,  "  'is  all  I  ask  of 
heaven.'  "  But  now  he  saw  himself  written  down  a 
baby,  a  whimpering  baby.  It  made  him  hate  those 
who  were  men.  He  almost  wished  that  the  perspiring 


VALOUR'S   PILGRIM  5 

heroes  who  shielded  his  life  would  turn  craven  also. 
Then  they  would  all  meet  death  in  a  common  shame. 
And  yet  if  these  men  proved  as  mortally  weak  as  he, 
he  would  not  have  cared  to  live. 

Now  there  must  be  no  question  of  my  slandering  this 
poor  boy.  On  the  contrary  I  feel  that  I  am  an  especially 
competent  mirror  for  his  emotions,  because  it  happens 
that  the  young  fellow  was  myself.  Be  charitable,  there- 
fore, for  you  must  know  that,  when  we  were  warned 
against  the  Indians  two  nights  previously,  I  had  exulted. 
More  than  that,  I  had  fretted  because  our  council 
of  war  had  smacked  so  of  caution.  It  was  stale  dis- 
illusion when  even  James  Bowie,  our  leader,  gravely 
calculated  the  distance  to  an  old  abandoned  Spanish 
fort.  Then  all  the  day  before  we  had  scurried  like 
rabbits.  But  the  November  rains  had  bitten  sluices 
across  our  trail,  which  was  a  bad  and  rocky  enough  one 
in  any  case,  and  night  had  found  us  still  on  the  open 
plain.  We  were  within  six  miles  of  the  old  fort,  but 
nobody  knew  that,  and  we  made  camp  as  usual,  except 
that  the  veteran  plainsmen  chose  for  it  a  possible 
battleground. 

"  'Long  'bout  the  only  covuh  we'll  meet  up  with 
to-night,"  Bowie  had  said,  drawing  rein  and  lifting  his 
chin  toward  a  thick  little  grove  of  live-oak  saplings  and 
cactus.  He  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  pointed  to  a  creek 
beyond.  "  Watuh  too,"  he  added. 

What  followed  was  for  me  the  beginning  of  life.  It 
was  the  eve  of  a  boy's  first  fight.  The  others  prepared 
to  meet  the  business  with  about  as  much  emotion  as  a 
settler  would  stake  a  field  for  ploughing.  My  eyes,  though, 
feasted  as  on  the  substance  of  a  dream,  and  my  greed 
to  help  got  me  considerably  in  the  way,  and  got  my 
feelings  hurt  too,  as  there  were  rough  words  at  my  green 
awkwardness.  •  Lush  Yandell,  a  huge  skulking,  hairy 


6  THE  LONE  STAR 

beast  of  a  man,  was  the  worst,  but  you  will  have  enough 
of  him  later,  as  I  certainly  did. 

In  the  centre  of  our  matte,  or  timber  island,  we  cleared 
a  space  where  we  could  hobble  our  horses  and  sleep. 
Next  we  made  a  circular  path  just  within  the  outer  edge 
of  the  thicket,  in  order  to  command  the  prairie  on  all 
sides  from  behind  the  screen  of  underbrush.  So  we  were 
military  engineers  on  occasion,  and  earned  our  supper. 
We  enjoyed  it  too,  but  that  was  customary.  There  were 
hoecake  and  buffalo  hump,  and  hoecake  and  wild  honey, 
and  a  wild  turkey  on  a  hickory  spit,  and  persimmons, 
and  that  heritage  of  ours  from  Louisiana,  drip  coffee, 
and  last  of  all,  a  smoke.  Lush  Yandell  had  a  vile, 
blackened,  red-clay  pipe,  the  stench  of  which  was  a  libel 
on  the  blessings  of  tobacco.  But  Colonel  Bowie  gave 
a  little  backward  jerk  of  the  head,  faintly  smiling  in 
the  significant  way  he  had,  and  Yandell  got  up  like  a 
surly  dog  and  removed  himself  to  leeward.  Bowie,  you 
see,  had  trained  Yandell  earlier  in  the  expedition.  After 
pipes,  we  tramped  over  our  cleared  spot  for  rattlers, 
and  bound  our  horse-hair  lariats  together  to  spread  the 
magic  circle  which  no  snake  might  cross,  and  here  we 
cuddled  into  blankets  and  buffalo  robes.  Except  the 
two  who  had  drawn  the  first  watch,  they  were  all  quickly 
in  heavy  sleep.  But  not  I!  Lying  there,  I  wondered 
at  them  for  sleeping. 

Nor  did  I  need  to  be  roused  when  my  turn  came  at 
midnight.  Wide  awake,  and  panting  even,  I  leaped  up 
and  shouldered  my  rifle.  The  earth  was  chilled  since 
sundown,  and  I  had  to  move  briskly  during  those  two 
hours  around  and  round  the  motte.  But  the  air  deep  in 
my  lungs  made  me  brave  there  alone  under  the  stars. 
My  brow  would  furrow  severely,  as  though  acquiring 
the  habit,  and  at  the  least  soft  stirring  in  grass,  up  would 
go  my  rifle  in  a  kind  of  delicious  fright.  Thus  I  nibbled 


VALOUR'S   PILGRIM  7 

at  danger,  though  an  under-consciousness  of  the  senses 
told  me  there  was  none,  as  yet. 

Now  what  is  more  natural  than  for  a  boy  to  imagine 
himself  as  he  would  like  to  be?  But  this  present  busi- 
ness of  mine  was  very  like  trying  for  fellowship  with 
the  demigods.  The  times  were  of  another  Troy,  as 
pregnant  of  deeds  as  an  epic.  There  must  be  heart- 
breaks laid  up  for  any  boy  who  hoped  to  measure  himself 
by  a  standard  like  that. 

Until  now  my  home  had  been  New  Orleans,  my  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  the  shadowed  calm  of  school  back 
East.  But  books  had  mostly  fretted  me.  For  a 
text  I  wanted  life ;  that  is  what  I  wanted.  Just  outside 
my  schoolroom,  like  "a  gang  of  great  boys,"  Americans 
were  thrilling  in  the  awakening  instincts  of  a  new  race. 
For  the  first  time  they  had  a  President  of  the  United 
States  who  was  really  of  the  people,  and  gloriously, 
rashly,  they  dared  him  further  yet;  and,  as  everybody 
knows,  Andy  Jackson  was  not  one  to  take  a  dare. 
Prophetic  and  imperious  were  those  great  boys.  In 
a  lusty  child's  unwitting  cruelty  they  were  beginning 
to  feel  that  they  would  need  more  room,  and  they  had 
a  mind  to  take  it,  too.  History  fairly  throbbed  in  the 
making,  and  the  fledging  of  a  hero  seemed  the  question 
of  a  minute. 

It  was  little  wonder  that  I  chafed  under  a  sense  of 
being  deprived.  Books  and  imagination  aggravated  the 
leash.  If  some  professor,  or  Rosalie,  who  was  forever 
hoisting  me  up  on  a  pedestal,  evolved  the  scholar  from 
my  brow,  why,  that  only  got  me  the  more  restive.  It 
was  not  fair.  What  call  had  physiognomy  to  hack  out 
one's  destiny?  I  craved  the  privilege  of  doing  that 
for  myself.  Why  shouldn't  a  brow  foster  brave  ideals 
as  well  as  musty  essays  on  Transcendentalism?  Why 
should  it  doom  a  boy  to  the  robe,  when  his  soul  yearned 


8  THE  LONE  STAR 

so  for  a  battle-axe?  But  this  was  rebellious  heresy,  and 
I  kept  it  secret.  People  would  laugh,  except  Rosalie. 
I  a  fire-eater,  and  my  sensitive  curve  of  mouth!  I  an 
intrepid  warrior,  and  that  girlish  bloom  of  cheek!  Dear, 
how  I  used  to  writhe  at  the  faintest  mention  of  a  blush! 
But  my  dolefulest  anguish  was  in  the  matter  of  jaw. 
My  jaw  lacked  heft.  Yet  I  was  privately  resolved  that 
destiny  must  not  be  held  in  a  chin,  nor  in  any  fashion  of 
bone  structure.  So  my  hope  and  despair,  my  one  radiant 
star  for  aspiration,  was  ever  and  always  the  mind's 
picture  of  myself  in  the  way  of  stalwart  achievement. 

Feeling  my  growth,  what  there  was  of  it  at  fourteen 
or  fifteen  years  of  age,  I  sought  to  give  my  longings  vent 
with  rifle  or  shotgun.  The  game  around  New  Orleans 
supplied  none  of  that  danger  to  the  hunter  which  makes 
for  the  only  genuine  sport,  but  wanting  better,  I 
passed  my  vacations  among  the  swamps  and  bayous. 
Early  one  morning,  when  out  after  wild  geese,  I  came 
upon  the  notorious  Duel  of  the  Sandbar  that  all  Louisi- 
ana talked  about  for  so  long  afterward.  It  was  a 
stupid  enough  brawl;  curses  and  firearms  and  just 
cynical  bravery.  Yet  for  me  it  more  resembled  posi- 
tive endeavour  than  aught  ever  beheld  until  that  day. 
I  stood  rooted,  with  mouth  agape,  tingling  to  the 
marrow. 

The  affair  had  begun  with  a  single  duel,  but  two  of 
the  opposing  seconds  could  not  let  the  chance  pass  to 
settle  an  account  of  their  own,  and  quickly  both  sides 
were  at  it  generally.  As  many  as  fifteen  men  were 
engaged.  Already  three  lay  on  the  sand.  One,  lean, 
lithe,  heavy-boned,  patrician  was  swaying  sullenly. 
He  had  curly  reddish  hair  and  sideburns.  One  hand 
was  pressed  to  his  ribs.  With  the  other  he  tried  to  aim 
his  weapon.  But  an  antagonist  from  behind  clubbed  a 
pistol  on  his  skull,  and  as  he  crashed  to  his  knees  a  second 


VALOUR'S   PILGRIM  9 

man  leaped  on  him.  Yet  even  then  he  flung  them  off, 
and  reclining  against  a  log,  he  aimed  once  more  at  his 
first  man.  He  and  the  other  fired  together,  and  at 
that  my  lean  giant  pitched  his  length,  face  downward, 
and  I  could  see  the  splendid  limbs  relax  and  the  crimson 
break  like  wine  over  his  fine  linen.  Instantly  his  first 
antagonist  was  leaning  over  him  with  a  sword  cane. 
As  in  a  spasm  my  giant  rolled  over  on  his  back,  heavily, 
like  a  man  asleep.  But  his  eyes  were  open,  and  they 
were  piercing,  steel-gray  eyes;  and  as  he  rolled,  his  arm 
swung  a  stiff  circle,  and  a  long  knife  in  his  hand  met  the 
breast  over  him,  and  sank  so  deep  that  the  hand  fell 
from  it  and  thumped  palm  upward  on  the  sand.  His 
antagonist  pitched  across  his  body,  and  died  there. 

These  two  men  were  the  principals  in  the  duel,  and 
now  the  fighting  stopped.  Both  sides  gathered  round 
my  red-haired  patrician  of  the  knife,  and  laboured  over 
him,  but  they  shook  their  heads  and  gave  him  up 
as  already  gone.  Then,  at  their  verdict,  the  eyelids 
flickered,  and  the  barest  tracery  of  a  smile  drew  the 
purple  lips. 

"You  all  will  obse've,  gentlemen,"  the  words  came, 
faint  and  thin,  "that  theh's  been  a — a  ceht'n  disrega'd 
of  the — the  social  amen'ties — heahbouts." 

I  sucked  in  my  breath.  Books  and  imagination, 
books  and  imagination,  whatever  had  they  given  me, 
like  unto  this?  For  days  afterward  I  haunted  the  big 
white  hotel  in  the  Rue  Royale  where  they  had  taken  him, 
and  haunted  it  until  the  man  who  was  as  good  as  dead 
walked  forth  again.  He  was  emaciated,  bloodless,  but  he 
was  a  towering,  superb,  red-headed  man,  full  six  feet 
three,  and  as  he  came  from  his  sick-bed  now,  he  was 
laughing  among  his  friends,  and  the  ring  of  his  laugh  won 
straight  to  the  heart.  My  idolatrous  eyes  followed  him 
until  he  swerved  roundly  into  the  next  street,  until  he 


io  THE  LONE  STAR 

vanished,  to  prey  on  what  further  high  adventure  the  old 
town  might  offer. 

It  had  been  no  trouble  to  identify  my  chevalier  of 
the  knife.  Everybody  knew  Jim  Bowie  from  up  around 
Catahoula  Parish,  who  was  always  ready  "for  fight  or 
frolic,  war  or  electioneering."  Eight  or  ten  years  before, 
when  this  Jim  Bowie  was  hardly  twenty,  my  father  had 
known  him  as  among  those  Americans  in  the  New 
Philippines — Texas — who  were  fighting  the  Spaniards 
for  Mexican  independence.  Bowie's  impulses  were 
frankly  primeval,  and  at  the  period  of  the  duel  they  were 
turned  to  joyous  daredeviltry.  He  had  been  buying 
"black  ivory"  for  a  dollar  a  pound  from  Lafitte  the 
pirate  to  smuggle  them  off  the  slave  ships  and  sell 
them.  Thus  it  was  that  just  now  our  Creole  town 
knew  his  mocking  gray  eyes  again  while  he  scattered 
his  loot.  That  business  on  the  sandbar  was  merely  an 
episode. 

There  was,  though,  an  inimitable  suggestion  of  polish 
in  Bowie's  reckless  gaiety.  He  was  sensitive  too,  and 
felt  it  keenly  when  decent  people  veiled  their  looks. 
Something  of  this  may  account  for  his  leaving  town  soon 
after,  and  when  we  heard  of  him  again,  he  was  once 
more  in  Texas.  It  appeared,  also,  that  he  was  become  a 
sobered  man  of  worth.  He  had  married  the  daughter  of 
the  Mexican  vice-governor  in  San  Antonio,  and  at  the  wed- 
ding a  Mexican  general,  Santa  Ana,  had  stood  for  him. 

As  for  myself,  meanwhile,  I  had  contrived  nothing 
more  notable  than  to  grow  along  into  my  nineteenth 
year.  Yet  this  was  something,  because  each  year  behind 
me  counted  that  much  nearer  to  the  day  when  I  also 
might  go  to  Texas.  Here  was  a  notion  that  had  hooked 
itself  into  my  ambitions  five  years  before,  and  it  had 
been  fastening  deeper  ever  since.  But  such  was  the 
way  with  notions;  they  were  like  fish-hooks.  And 


VALOUR'S   PILGRIM  n 

because  it  hurt  so  to  pull  one  out,  I  rarely  tried  it — 
and  people  got  to  calling  me  bull-headed. 

But  no  youngster  could  be  blamed  for  wanting  to  go 
to  Texas.  Not  to  want  to  go  was  to  write  oneself  a 
fossil.  Mr.  Stephen  Austin's  prospectus  urging  colonists 
to  settle  on  his  grant  out  there  was  an  insidious  engine 
of  torture,  so  fearful  was  I  that  the  vast  wilderness  would 
all  be  taken  up  before  I  could  grow  enough. 

Next,  the  Mexicans  took  alarm  at  the  few  hundred 
American  families  whom  they  had  welcomed  to  their 
frontier  province  as  a  buffer  against  the  Indians,  and 
this  added  the  last  irresistible  dash  to  the  Texan  sauce. 
Like  the  Angles  and  Saxons  invited  over  by  the  Britons 
the  American  settlers  declined  to  retire.  Soon  The 
Commercial  Bulletin  of  our  town  was  filled  with 
accounts  of  Mexican  garrisons  in  Texas,  of  colonists  in 
prison,  of  women  insulted.  But  next  we  read  how  the 
colonists  rose  against  the  soldiery,  and  drove  every  one 
of  them  out  of  Texas.  For  instance,  Bowie  and  fifty 
others  met  and  defeated  the  garrison  of  two  hundred 
at  Nacogdoches,  and  presented  them  as  prisoners  to 
Mr.  Austin. 

Well,  after  exploits  like  these,  there's  no  need  to  say 
that  that  notion  of  mine  grew  as  insistent  as  the  very 
"Old  Harry."  And  then,  when  the  Mexican  president 
decreed  that  Americans  should  be  excluded  from  Texas, 
of  course,  there  was  no  longer  the  breath  of  real  life  for 
me  unless  I  could  draw  it  in  that  same  forbidden  land. 
I  was  nineteen,  too,  and  my  father  gave  in.  He  secured 
me  a  passport,  and  wrote  me  a  letter  to  Bowie.  I 
nearly  changed  my  mind,  though,  when  it  came  to  telling 
my  mother  good-bye,  but  tumbled  back  into  my  first 
mind  quickly  enough  when  Rosalie  started  to  crying  and 
wanted  a  gold  button  as  soon  as  they  made  me  a  colonel. 
You  see,  Rosalie  was  not  my  sister,  and  her  crying  was 


I2  THE  LONE  STAR 

different.  And  then  a  baby  brother  of  mine,  who  could 
barely  count  thirteen  years,  threw  his  toy  rifle  to  his 
hip  and  shattered  my  reflection  in  our  handsomest  mirror 
because  he  couldn't  go  too.  He  was  having  his  spanking 
when  I  left. 

With  my  dog,  my  blooded  colt  Boreas,  my  nigger, 
and  a  ranger's  outfit  according  to  the  ideas  of  New 
Orleans  tailors,  I  reached  San  Antonio  de  Bexar  to  find 
that  Bowie  was  organising  an  expedition  to  some  old  silver 
mines  about  a  hundred  miles  northwest.  He  had,  more- 
over, the  kind  permission  of  his  lordship,  the  Jefe  Politico 
of  the  province  of  Texas.  The  excitement  over  driving 
out  the  Mexican  garrisons,  it  should  be  explained,  had 
quieted  down.  There  had  been  a  simultaneous  revolu- 
tion down  at  the  Mexican  capital,  headed  by  General 
Santa  Ana,  and  when  Santa  Ana  prevailed,  he  graciously 
adopted  the  Texan  uprising  as  a  part  of  his  own.  So  I 
understood  now  why  my  father  had  let  me  come,  since  I 
arrived  too  late  for  the  festivities.  My  only  consolation 
was  the  chance  to  join  Bowie's  expedition. 

We  were  out  only  a  few  days  when  some  Comanches  on 
the  Bandera  trail  warned  us  against  a  scalping  party  of 
their  cousins,  the  Tehuacanies,  who  were  the  worst 
horse- thieves  on  the  range.  Thus  it  had  come  to  pass 
that  I  was  standing  guard  under  the  stars,  a  man  at 
last,  among  men.  And  you  may  not  wonder  that  I 
listened,  and  tried,  tried  so  very  hard,  to  "catch  the 
fates,  low-whispered  in  the  breeze." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    TRAGEDY    IN    A    WEAK   CHIN 

MORNING  dawned,  however,  without  any  Indians. 
One  could  not  imagine  them,  either;  could  not 
construct  them  into  the  boundlessly  placid  landscape. 
I  was  disappointed,  of  course,  but  it  annoyed  me  because 
this  feeling  was  vaguely  tinctured  with  relief,  too. 

We  bolted  our  corn  pone  and  tasso,  and  we  were  already 
cinching  up  to  leave  when  the  gray  mist  of  the  prairie 
lifted  like  a  curtain  to  slow  music,  and  revealed  a  solitary 
Indian  knee  deep  in  the  undulating  grass.  His  gaze 
was  bent  on  the  trail,  but  he  straightened,  and  saw  us 
as  we  saw  him.  As  the  curtain  rolled  on  back  toward 
the  horizon,  we  perceived  his  fellows  behind  him  strung 
out  along  the  trail,  and  silhouetted  against  the  great 
blazing  disc  of  the  sun  like  so  many  equestrian  bronzes. 
They  could  not  be  real,  they — Well,  I  laughed  nervously 
at  this  wholesale  lot  of  statuary  littered  over  the  grass, 
motionless,  posing,  as  though  awaiting  purchasers.  Their 
hands  shaded  their  eyes,  and  they  looked  to  where  their 
scout  pointed  his  lance.  Then,  when  they  discovered 
us  whipping  our  ponies  back  to  the  motte,  they  clapped 
hand  to  mouth  and  let  out  a  gleeful  ki-yi  that  put  ants 
into  my  veins. 

But  they  did  not  become  the  whirlwind  at  once.  No, 
they  had  to  get  ready  first,  not  in  priming  rifles  or 
barbing  arrows,  but  with  smearing  coloured  grease  on 
their  lean  jaws  and  bony  chests.  They  were  like  actors 
making  up,  and  the  bizarre  unreality  persisted,  even 
when  they  had  stripped  for  action  and  were  mounting. 

13 


i4  THE  LONE  STAR 

They  simply  would  not  fit  in  with  broad  daylight. 
Until  now  my  terrors  had  been  of  the  night-time 
only,  and  morning  always  dispelled  them.  But  one 
word  stuck  in  my  drying  throat.  "Scalps!"  It  was  the 
bogie  of  our  mammy  nurses.  It  meant  the  skin  ripped 
from  the  head,  but  I  could  not  cap  the  meaning  to  my 
head.  Yet  for  all  that,  the  ants  seemed  to  have  gotten 
down  in  the  roots  of  my  hair. 

A  voice  made  me  jump. 

"Hey  theuh,  you,  stuh  lively  now!" 

I  obeyed,  and  dropped  where  Bowie  stationed  me  in 
the  circular  path  of  our  thicket.  Maybe  it  was  the 
fumbling  way  in  which  I  tried  to  point  my  gun  through 
the  bushes:  or,  for  all  I  know,  my  face  was  chalk  white; 
but  at  any  rate  Bowie  paused  over  me. 

"Bettuh  have  stayed  with  yo'  fathuh,  eh  Harry?"  he 
said. 

"No,"  I  answered  bitterly,  "I — I've  stayed  with  him 
too  long  already." 

What  price  would  I  not  have  given,  in  that  moment, 
for  only  a  year  of  the  world's  stiffening!  This  Bowie,  for 
instance,  so  mild  and  cool  and  gentle  in  our  hideous 
peril,  at  my  age  he  had  been  already  a  formidable  leader 
of  men.  And  here  was  I,  letting  him  pat  me  reassuringly 
on  the  back!  And  worse,  I  was  grateful  to  him  for  it, 
in  spite  of  myself. 

The  eleven  of  us  were  hidden  from  each  other  as  we 
crouched  in  the  chaparral,  and  it  seemed  that  I  was  as 
one  against  the  horde  out  there  where  yells  and  hoof- 
beats  merged  into  a  thunderous  roar.  I  saw  them  com- 
ing, yet  could  not  awaken  to  the  unfamiliar  thing  called 
Resistance.  When  men  decreed — my  father,  my  tutors, 
our  family  doctor — I  had  obeyed.  The  habit  was 
strong,  -and  boys,  you  know,  like  Mr.  Clay's  compro- 
mises, are  forever  subject  to  amendment.  So  when 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN  A  WEAK  CHIN          15 

these  demons  came  galloping,  decreeing  my  death,  I 
didn't  like  it,  naturally,  any  more  than  a  switch,  or  a 
hundred  lines  of  Greek,  or  herb  tea.  But  that  I  was  to 
resent  it  did  not  at  first  enter  my  head.  Then  an  arrow 
swished  through  the  leaves.  Heavens,  they  had  no 
right  to  do  that!  There  was  the  weapon  in  my  hand,  and 
I  awoke,  dazedly,  to  my  manhood.  I  myself,  and  not 
others,  must  henceforth  decree  what  concerned  myself. 
This  was  to  be  a  man, 

As  I  pressed  the  gun  to  my  shoulder,  my  teeth  chat- 
tered, and  I  ground  them  together.  Yet  the  muzzle 
swayed  drunkenly  from  side  to  side.  My  indignation 
knew  no  bounds.  What  was  the  matter  with  me  ?  The 
in-drawn  breath  was  whistling  through  my  teeth,  and 
then,  with  no  warning  at  all,  my  stomach  collapsed, 
and  I  was  vomiting.  Could  it  be  that — that  this  was 
that  loathsome  thing  I  had  read  about  and  despised — 
that  this  was — Cowardice? 

"No!"  and  I  do  not  know  but  that  I  screamed  it 
aloud.  "No,  no!" 

And  those  devils  out  there,  they  were  the  cause! 
But  they  should  pay  for  it,  they 

Oh  well,  shame  turned  to  rage  just  like  that. 

But  our  thicket  would  be  trampled  underfoot,  and 
we  too.  They  were  coming  down  on  us  like  a  hurricane 
on  a  cornfield,  as  I've  heard  Davy  Crockett  describe 
just  such  a  thing.  The  din  of  yells,  the  volleying 
muskets,  the  storm  of  dust,  it  seemed  that  death  had 
already  enveloped  us,  when  their  furious  charge  broke, 
and  swerved  into  two  circles  around  our  motte.  Their 
naked  bodies  gleamed  in  the  low-lying  shafts  of  the 
morning  sun.  Eagle  feathers  bristled  back  with  the 
wind  from  long  scalp-locks,  and  from  the  streaming 
manes  and  tails  of  their  ponies.  They  were  the  alle- 
gory for  Speed,  and — other  things.  The  vermilion 


1 6  THE  LONE  STAR 

streaks  on  their  lumpy  cheek  bones,  the  murderous 
screeching,  the  rifle  or  lance  twirled  overhead,  here  was 
human  flesh  monstrously  organised  into  a  machine  to 
kill.  And  it  was  very  odd.  It  was  an  enormity. 
The  eleven  white  men,  unseen,  unheard,  stealthily 
waiting,  they  were  like  hunted  hares  cowering  in  the 
brush.  Or  was  there  in  their  patience  a  menace  more 
deadly  than  all  this  fearful  warwhooping? 

An  abrupt  explosion  near  me  suggested  the  answer, 
for  one  of  the  barbarians  rose  from  his  horse  as  by 
galvanic  impulse,  then  drooped  back  on  the  haunches 
like  a  rag,  then  rolled  off  into  the  grass.  I  heard  a  low 
grunt  of  satisfaction.  "Got  him!"  Bob  Armstrong, 
the  cleanest  shot  among  us,  had  done  that  thing. 

There  were  more  reports,  and  more  frantic  ponies 
out  there  went  riderless.  It  devolved  on  me  to  kill 
somebody  also.  But  my  finger  refused  its  pressure  on 
the  trigger.  The  horror  of  just  that  little  motion  clap- 
ping a  soul  in  eternity  palsied  my  will.  Then  a  bullet 
that  threw  dirt  in  my  eyes  made  me  understand  that 
the  question  was  rather  of  my  own  soul's  voyaging. 
A  spasmodic  twitch,  and  I  knew  that  I  had  fired. 
But  the  gallant  buck  impinged  on  my  rifle  sight  moved 
on  as  before,  the  scarlet  Mexican  banda  still  trailing 
from  his  naked  waist.  I  smiled,  which  was  my  first 
sign  of  complete  sanity  that  morning.  I  need  not 
have  been  so  concerned  over  the  red  man's  eternity. 

The  first  harrowing  business  of  war  cries  and  bran- 
dished weapons  was  only  conventional  greeting.  But 
it  failed.  The  white  men  did  not  take  panic  and  leave 
cover.  The  Indians  fell  faster,  too,  as  they  rode  nearer, 
and  soon  they  began  to  veer  at  a  tangent  from  their 
circles,  and  to  settle  down  behind  the  isolated  trees 
and  rocks.  Some  retired  to  the  shoulder  of  a  mound- 
like  hill,  and  dropped  arrows  on  us,  hoping  for  random 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN  A  WEAK  CHIN          17 

hits.  Ten  or  twelve  riflemen  opened  fire  from  the  bank 
of  the  creek,  not  thirty  yards  away.  They  were  keen 
shots,  too,  and  we  moved  as  quick  as  grasshoppers  each 
time  we  let  them  have  our  smoke  for  a  target.  But 
the  Indians  showed  their  heads  over  the  bank  to  aim, 
and  in  due  course  our  men  had  registered  with  a  bullet 
in  each  head. 

"Now  then,  Jim,"  said  Bowie,  in  the  tone  of  con- 
ferring a  privilege,  "suppose  you  take  the  canteens  and 
fetch  us  some  watuh." 

Black  Jim  Bowie,  as  we  called  Bowie's  negro,  opened 
his  cavernous  mouth. 

"Jim!" — and  his  master  smiled  reproachfully — "you 
ceht'nly  aren't  more  'fraid  of  Indians  than  of  me,  Jim?" 
The  quaking  darky  knew  his  own  littleness  in  that  smile. 

"No  ma'sah,  yeah  ma'sah,"  he  blubbered.  "Yeah, 
I'se  gwine"  and  he  did,  catching  up  the  canteens,  and 
running  to  the  creek. 

I  could  credit  now  the  legends  among  us  of  Bowie's 
fantastic  pranks,  when  the  spirit  of  fun  and  mockery 
rollicked  hand  in  hand  with  his  great  strength.  He 
would,  it  was  said,  lasso  an  alligator  waddling  from 
swamp  to  bayou,  and  stand  on  the  monster's  back,  and 
goad  him  on  with  laughter. 

None  of  us  imagined  that  there  were  any  Indians  left 
at  the  creek,  but  all  at  once  we  heard  a  shriek  of  mortal 
terror.  Then  Black  Jim  came  scrambling  over  the  edge 
of  the  bank,  and  behind  him  was  an  Indian  flourishing 
a  tomahawk. 

"Quick! "  cried  Bowie.  "Quick,  who's  loaded?  Who's 
loaded?" 

Some  of  the  men  groaned.     Their  guns  were  empty. 

"Yes,  I "  I  faltered.  My  gun  was  loaded,  I 

remembered,  but  as  I  raised  it  Bob  Armstrong  snatched 
it  away  and  fired. 


i8  THE  LONE  STAR 

" Got  him! "  he  muttered. 

Black  Jim  stumbled  among  us,  and  his  canteens  were 
filled  with  water,  too.  "Bress  yuh,  Mahs  Bob,  bress 
yuh!"  he  panted. 

"Bless  him  twice,  Jim,"  said  Bowie,  "for  he  surely 
saved  you  twice,  once  from  the  Reddie,  and  once  from 
Peachblow  heah." 

The  pink  that  stung  my  cheek  justified  the  epithet, 
and  I  knew  the  chagrin  in  a  slender  build.  I  wanted 
very  much  to  thrash  Bowie.  It  was  humiliation  enough, 
besides,  when  my  very  gun  was  not  my  own.  I  might 
load  the  weapon  indeed,  but  that  was  the  part  of  any 
frontier  woman. 

The  Indians  meantime  were  off  on  their  little  hill 
having  a  pow-wow.  Jealous  tribal  economy  of  their 
own  numbers  had  forced  them  to  craft,  and  the  lull 
while  we  waited  for  them  to  plot  our  doom  was  ghastlier 
than  ki-yi's. 

"Grass  will  burn,"  said  Deaf  Smith  in  a  short  growl. 
Deaf  Smith  was  a  little  wiry  scout  of  about  forty-five 
who  had  been  seasoned  to  the  toughness  and  dryness 
and  colour  of  brown  wrinkled  leather.  He  was  a  lone 
silent  man  who  had  fought  over  these  plains  during 
twenty  years.  He  uttered  words  grudgingly,  but  they 
were  always  heavy  words.  He  knew  now  what  the 
Indians  would  do  before  they  knew  it  themselves. 
Others  besides  myself  stirred  uneasily  at  his  verdict. 
Lush  Yandell,  for  all  his  dark  boasting  of  prowess  in 
the  Neutral  Ground,  burst  forth  with  a  vile  oath  of 
protest.  He  wet  a  hairy  finger  between  his  lips  and 
crooked  it  in  the  air. 

"Yuh  cow's  hind  foot!"  He  turned,  leering,  on  Deaf 
Smith.  "That  grass'ull  hev  to  burn  purt'  nigh  the 
way  the  wind  blows — eh?  An'  that's  pig-tight!  An' 
it  so  happens  thet  she's  a-blowin'  t'uds  us  /rww  the  crik, 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN  A  WEAK  CHIN          19 

with  yuh  kind  permission,  an'  all  we  hev  to  do  is  to  keep 
'em  frum  comin'  on  this  here  side  the  crik  to  set 
her  on  fire — eh?" 

Deaf  Smith  absently  played  a  tattoo  with  two  fingers 
on  the  back  of  his  ear. 

"Eh,  you  lightnin '-struck  old  stump,"  Yandell 
stormed,  "you  heered  me  sayin' " 

"Words,"  grunted  Deaf  Smith,  "jes'  words." 

"But  Deaf,"  objected  Bowie,  "so  far  Yandell  seems 
to  be  right." 

"  How?     Oh  yes.     But  everybody  has  plenty  o'  time." 

"You  mean  the  Reddies  will  keep  us  heah  till  the 
wind  shifts?" 

Of  course!  It  was  too  childish  for  even  a  nod  of  the 
head,  and  the  taciturn  old  scout's  only  reply  was  by 
example.  He  turned  from  us  to  our  clearing  in  the 
centre  of  the  grove,  where  he  began  scraping  away  the 
twigs  and  dry  leaves.  Bowie  had  fought  against  the 
Spaniards  with  Deaf  Smith,  and  he  perceived  now  that 
the  scout's  answer  was  a  good  one.  The  arrows  were 
falling  again,  but  Bowie  set  us  to  work  piling  up  a  hedge 
of  stone  and  logs  around  the  clearing.  Here  we  laid  the 
man  Mack  who  was  killed  early  in  the  fight,  and  also 
Dan  Buchanan  with  a  slug  in  his  thigh,  who  chewed  on 
a  roll  of  "bitter  twist"  and  grumbled  because  he  had 
no  chance  to  get  even.  Here  too  we  covered  our 
baggage  with  wet  blankets,  and  threw  our  horses 
and  hog-tied  them.  Armstrong  and  Yandell  had 
been  keeping  an  eye  on  the  creek,  and  after  a  while 
several  Indians  with  flaming  brands  tried  to  climb 
up  the  bank.  None  succeeded,  however,  and  each 
failure  cost  them  a  life.  Then  we  in  the  motte  heard 
Yandell 's  voice. 

"Gawd,  Gawd,  Gawd!" 

"Now  what?"  shouted  Bowie. 


2o  THE  LONE  STAR 

The  hulk  of  a  man  crashed  through  the  brush  to  us. 
He  held  up  a  claw-like  finger,  and  his  mouth  worked 
speechlessly. 

"Well,"  said  Bowie,  "and  what  merry  greeting  have 
we  heah?" 

Yandell's  hairy  claw  was  thrust  into  his  face. 

"It's  on  this  side,  I'm  tellin'  you,"  he  cried.  "It's 
went  an'  cooled  on  this  side  here!" 

We  understood  now.  The  wind  had  shifted,  and  had 
freshened  into  the  bargain.  A  crackling  sound,  low  and 
vicious,  grew  on  our  ears,  followed  by  exultant  yells. 
We  hastened  to  the  edge  of  the  motte.  Off  near  the  little 
hill  black  jets  of  smoke  darted  out  of  the  grass  here 
and  there.  The  forked  tongues  snatched  at  each  other 
and  thickened  into  a  long,  swirling,  inky  wave  that  rose 
higher  and  higher  and  bellied  out  toward  us.  The 
grass  before  it  curled  and  shrivelled  and  leaped  to  flame, 
and  under  the  smoke  there  was  a  blaze  like  a  roaring 
furnace  when  the  door  is  opened  for  an  instant.  Behind 
this  dense  curtain  the  Indians  were  dragging  off  their 
dead,  but  howling  their  glee  too,  and  altogether  adding 
the  last  needed  touch  to  a  picture  of  Hell  and  Hell's 
fiends.  Bowie's  eyes  hardened  deep  in  his  head. 

"Ugh,  I  hate  'em!"  he  muttered.  "They're  so  all- 
fiahed  noisy." 

The  oncoming  breaker,  of  flame  now  and  crested  with 
smoke,  leaped  to  the  grove  as  though  sucked  into  a 
vacuum,  and  caught  at  the  first  branches  and  hanging 
moss.  The  imps  split  the  air  at  their  shrillest.  They 
danced  joyously  while  they  waited  for  the  end. 

We  scrambled  back  to  our  clearing  in  the  centre  of 
the  motte.  "Work  now,  work!"  shouted  Bowie.  He 
was  himself  a  fury  of  activity.  His  jacket  was  slashed, 
his  face  was  begrimed  in  the  smoke  rolling  over  us,  and 
he  was  bleeding.  But  he  was  happy.  I  had  never  §e.en 


21 


so  intense,  so  concentrated  a  happiness  in  human  expres- 
sion. He  yelled  cheerily  to  a  man  here,  shoved  another 
there,  and  we  worked.  With  our  knives,  with  bare 
hands,  we  rooted  up  sod,  scooped  up  dirt,  raising  our 
barricade,  or  beat  at  the  sparks  falling  thicker  and 
thicker.  But  he  was  always  the  quickest  to  a  serpent 
of  flame,  to  have  his  heel  on  it,  and  great  boulders  he 
handled  like  marbles.  "  It's  sure  work  now,  gentlemen ! " 
His  heartening  words  were  so  many  caresses.  "No, 
don't  fiah.  You  can't  open  your  powder  horns  again 
with  these  spa'hks  flying.  Our  last  shot  is  for  'em 
when  they  get  heah.  And  then,  our  knives.  Unduh- 
stand,  gentlemen,  our  knives!" 

It  is  strange  that  afterward  these  things  came  back 
to  me  so  clear  and  sharp,  because  at  the  time  I  knew 
nothing,  not  even  what  I  was  doing  myself.  Bowie  has 
told  me,  though,  that  he  seemed  to  be  always  stepping 
on  me.  He  had  never  imagined  before,  he  said,  that 
such  vehement  profanity  could  come  from  a  rosy- 
cheeked  Cupid  of  a  boy.  Once,  too,  he  saw  me  feverishly 
trying  to  cover  my  prostrate  horse  with  a  saddle  blanket. 

Gaining  our  barricade,  the  flames  spread  on  either 
side,  and  circled  it,  until  we  were  virtually  inside  the 
furnace.  Myriads  of  sparks  swept  through  the  air,  or 
pounced  down  as  though  they  had  beaks  and  claws. 
We  grabbed  frantically  at  our  hair,  or  slapped  ourselves, 
or  hopped  about  when  stung  underfoot,  and  all  the  while 
our  poor  horses  kicked  to  break  their  ropes  and  screamed 
in  agony.  Around  me  the  desperate  men  pounded  and 
battled,  with  robes,  with  blankets,  with  bare  hands.  I 
remember  how  hard  they  breathed. 

We  might  have  been  victims  at  the  stake.  The 
Indians  dancing  around  us  considered  us  so,  indeed. 
Oh,  why,  out  of  the  black  mystery  of  the  ages,  had  they, 
the  red,  and  I,  the  white,  been  brought  to  meet  in 


22  THE  LONE  STAR 

this  one  hour  of  all  Time,  on  this  one  acre  of  all  Space? 
And  why,  of  all  the  Universe,  did  they  want  my  scalp? 
I  couldn't  account  for  them  as  human  beings,  that  is  all. 
For  me  they  were  an  Inanimate  Death,  like  the  mountain 
wave,  or  the  cold  of  trackless  snow.  Their  screeching 
was  blood  thirst  bursting  into  expression.  But  I  could 
not  understand  blood  thirst,  unless  in  wolves. 

I  must  have  been  going  into  delirium,  I  suppose,  but 
I  struggled  out  of  its  mazes  to  discover  that  I  was  lying 
face  downward  on  the  ground,  with  my  head  buried  in 
my  arms.  Charred  smells  weighted  the  air,  and  the 
rock  of  our  barricade,  where  my  head  touched  it,  was 
hot  enough  to  blister  the  skin.  The  roar  of  flames  had 
ceased,  but  there  were  fusilades  and  curses  and  groans. 
I  crowded  my  head  deeper  into  my  arms,  and  my  spine 
twitched  as  I  imagined  Indians  leaping  the  barricade 
and  pausing  over  me  with  lifted  hatchets. 

Ho,  now,  but  was  this  the  man's  part  I  was  to  play? 
There  were  worse  things  in  the  world  than  lifted  hatchets, 
and  what  if  one's  spine  did  twitch?  My  hand  went  out 
and  groped  along  the  ground.  It  closed  over  my  rifle. 
Next  I  must  lift  myself  to  the  level  of  our  stone  hedge, 
and  then  I  must  fire.  The  shooting  rose  to  a  deafening 
volley  over  me,  but  I  was  so  intent  on  what  I  was  to 
do  that  I  took  no  note  of  the  comparative  silence  that 
followed,  nor  of  the  Indian  war  cries  dying  out  farther 
and  farther  away.  But  as  I  lifted  my  head,  there  was 
a  report  behind  me,  and  the  lead  spattered  on  the  rock 
over  my  head.  I  ducked,  and  hugged  the  earth  involun- 
tarily. For  a  period  I  quivered  there.  The  whole 
dreary  struggle  with  myself  must  begin  all  over  again. 
I  raised  my  head.  I  braced  my  arms  to  the  ground. 
With  each  inch  higher  I  suffered,  in  each  one  achieved 
I  gloried,  and  from  my  hands  I  gained  my  knees.  Then 
with  a  wild  plunge  I  flung  my  gun  across  the  breastwork 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN  A  WEAK  CHIN          23 

and  pulled  the  trigger.  I  stared  blankly.  The  motte 
was  smouldering,  the  prairie  around  it  was  blackened, 
but  the  Indians  were  gone.  In  the  distance  I  saw  them 
moving  out  of  range.  A  great  raucous  laugh  went  up 
behind  me. 

I  swung  round,  and  there  they  were,  our  men,  tattered, 
begrimed,  exhausted,  wounded,  but  the  countenance 
of  each  was  lively  with  merriment.  Their  eyes  were 
on  me.  The  guffaw  had  come  from  Lush  Yandell. 
Bowie  was  smiling.  Deaf  Smith's  leathery  visage  bore 
a  quizzical  look.  At  first  I  was  all  joy  to  find  them 
still  living.  Then  I  saw  that  they  were  laughing  at  me. 
Bowie's  rifle  was  in  his  hand,  and  he  began  to  reload. 
I  understood,  now,  that  it  was  he  who  had  fired  that  shot 
against  the  rock  which  had  made  me  drop  and  tremble. 
My  shame  was  so  overwhelming  that  I  felt  that  it 
would  blight  me  absolutely  in  men's  eyes  until  death 
closed  my  own.  But  it  held  the  Texans  only  a  trivial 
second. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Bowie,  laughing  the  incident 
from  his  mind,  "it's  been  a  ha'ud  day's  work.  Suppose 
we  go  and  wash  up  a  bit." 

Two  men  remained  on  guard,  and  the  rest  of  us  limped 
stiffly  down  to  the  creek.  I  caught  my  lip  between  my 
teeth,  and  followed.  I  tried  to  throw  my  shoulders 
back.  No  use!  Rigidity  of  pose  was  not  self-respect. 
Ah,  one  could  be  brave  so  easily  in  the  scholar's  den. 
One  could  toughen  nerves  to  thongs  of  bull-hide  in  the 
financier's  swivel  chair.  But  Texas  was  different.  Here 
it  was  the  naked  elemental  epoch  of  man  to  man.  It 
was  the  epoch  of  the  knife.  And  here  was  I,  like  La 
Fontaine's  wax  taper,  trying  to  make  myself  a  brick 
by  plunging  into  the  fire.  The  best  thing  for  me  was 
to  go  home.  But  can  you  imagine  the  bitterness  in  such 
a  confession  to  one's  own  self?  There  I  stood  on  the 


24  THE  LONE  STAR 

threshold  of  life,  yet  fearfully  doubting  if  I  were  man 
enough  to  step  beyond.  I  must  draw  back  from  all 
that  had  been  so  fondly  expected  of  life. 

Once  down  at  the  creek,  I  kept  away  from  the  others, 
and  on  my  knees  listlessly  began  dashing  the  water  over 
my  face.  But  soon  I  discovered  that  I  was  leaning  on 
my  hands,  and  gazing  moodily  into  the  clear,  mirror- 
like  pool  under  me.  It  was  with  some  dull  idea  of  facing 
out  this  unlovely  business,  I  suppose.  There  had  been 
the  exaltation  of  standing  guard  the  night  before,  and 
wishing  my  mother  could  see  me.  And  now — ugh!  Then 
there  had  been  the  vision  of  Rosalie's  idolising  blue  eyes. 
I  did  not  want  to  think  of  Rosalie.  But  my  mother — 
Well,  I  may  as  well  own  up  that  the  tears  cut  loose  and 
began  leaking  down  one  by  one  into  the  water.  I  fell 
to  counting  them  mechanically  as  they  spattered,  which 
brought  my  gaze  to  my  own  reflection  in  the  pool.  My 
features  were  streaked  and  gashed  and  bruised.  There 
was  a  big  lump  over  one  eye.  Perhaps  it  was  a  falling 
limb  that  had  knocked  me  unconscious,  and  brought 
me  down  with  my  face  to  the  ground.  I  gazed  steadily 
at  myself,  and  commenced  to  take  note.  But  what  held 
me  at  last  was  my  trembling  lower  lip,  and  a  mouth 
partly  open.  I  clenched  my  jaws  together.  But  that 
scarcely  helped.  No  knotted  cords  of  power  showed 
themselves.  Abruptly,  despairingly,  I  sobbed  aloud: 

"  It's — it's  my  chin! " 

I  got  wearily  to  my  feet,  altogether  the  lonesomest 
lone  boy  in  all  Texas.  As  I  turned  to  leave,  I  started 
shamefacedly.  The  old  scout,  Deaf  Smith,  was  there, 
and  he  had  been  observing  me.  In  his  black  eyes  was 
the  same  quizzical  expression  as  when  they  were  all 
making  a  holiday  of  my  anguish. 

"  Look  here,  son,"  he  said  in  a  curt  voice  that  made  me 
flush  imploringly,  "look  here,  I'd  relish  shaking  hands." 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN  A  WEAK  CHIN          25 

I  stared  at  him  open-mouthed.  But  he  was  all  gravity. 
After  all  he  had  not  followed  me  here  to  prolong  the 
taunt. 

"I  would,  heaps,"  he  added,  as  short  and  jerky  as 
before. 

Suddenly  I  took  the  old,  weatherbeaten  hand;  and 
clung  to  it,  too.  I  would  have  laid  my  heart  in  that 
leathery  palm,  had  I  been  able. 

"Because,"  he  went  on,  answering  my  puzzled  look, 
"you  whopped  the  darnedest  Injin  a  man  most  ever 
meets;  I  mean  yo'  own  self,  son." 

My  jaws  snapped  down  tight.  I  changed  my  mind 
about  going  home. 


CHAPTER  III 
"BIG  DRUNK" 

AS  the  old  scout  turned  with  me  from  the  creek,  he 
pointed  to  Lush  Yandell,  who  was  stooping  over 
a  dead  Indian,  knife  in  hand.  I  looked  closer,  and  turned 
away,  sickened.  Leering,  ravenous,  the  hairy  des- 
perado was  cutting  off  enough  skin  to  make  for  him- 
self a  tobacco  wallet. 

"Leastwise,"  grunted  Deaf  Smith,  "that's  what  ain't 
the  proof  of  a  man." 

Pondering  which,  for  no  one  could  ever  say  how  deep 
his  meaning  carried,  I  went  back  to  our  camp  in  the 
motte.  All  that  night  we  raised  our  fortification  breast 
high  and  stored  up  water  in  canteens  and  skin  bags. 
We  could  hear  the  Indians  off  on  their  little  hill,  where 
they  shot  their  mortally  wounded  and  howled  mournful 
dirges.  But  Deaf  Smith  was  no  longer  the  prophet 
of  evil.  "They  got  enough,"  he  said.  Their  chief,  a 
spectacular  paladin  with  buffalo  horns  in  his  war 
bonnet,  had  been  killed,  and  when  they  saw  us  so  well 
intrenched  the  next  morning,  they  got  themselves  away 
from  there. 

This  might  be  a  ruse,  though,  and  we  stayed  where  we 
were  for  seven  days  more.  We  had  three  wounded 
men,  whom  Deaf  Smith  poulticed  up  with  oak  juice  and 
mud,  to  keep  off  gangrene.  We  needed  more  horses, 
too,  to  replace  those  killed,  and  we  rigged  up  a  flagpole 
and  burned  a  fire  at  night,  in  case  any  friendly  Indians 
might  be  passing  that  way.  It  was,  altogether,  a  pretty 
close  analogy  to  being  shipwrecked  on  a  reef.  One  day 

26 


"BIG  DRUNK"  27 

Bob  Armstrong  set  out  with  an  extra  horse,  and  came 
back  that  night  laden  with  buffalo  meat  he  had  killed. 

At  last,  no  help  appearing,  and  everybody  being  able 
and  impatient  to  move  on,  we  formed  our  crippled 
caravan  and  bore  off  northwest  to  a  wooded  upland 
called  the  San  Saba  hills.  In  the  valley  beyond,  near  a 
river  of  the  same  name,  we  camped  among  some  old 
walls  twelve  feet  thick  surrounding  the  bleak  ruins  of  a 
chapel.  They  were  the  crumbling  monument  to  a  past 
gloomy  tyranny.  Here  had  been  the  usual  Spanish 
mission  and  presidio.  Here  vagabond  soldiers  had 
gathered  natives  for  the  friars  to  convert.  Here,  as 
usual,  the  red  child  of  nature  had  languished  under 
midnight  devotions  to  his  Father  in  Heaven,  under  the 
whip,  under  austere  penance  for  every  free  breath  he 
durst  draw.  I  could  not  wonder  that  here  too,  and 
again  as  usual,  the  Spaniard  had  failed  to  civilise  the 
wilderness,  and  was  at  last  impelled  to  ask  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  to  do  it  for  him.  Seventy  years  before  a  party 
of  bravos,  as  the  untamed  Indians  were  called,  had 
stopped  at  the  presidio  when  the  soldiers  were  away,  and 
offered  to  trade  furs  for  corn.  But  once  inside  they 
snatched  knives  from  under  their  buffalo  robes  and 
put  an  end  to  the  dark  story  once  for  all.  Only  one 
priest  got  back  to  San  Antonio  alive.  But  even  he 
needed  a  miracle  on  the  way.  A  certain  river  divided 
its  waters  for  him  to  pass,  and  this  river  henceforth 
became  the  Brazos  de  Dios;  though  why  the  Arms  of 
God  stayed  folded  during  the  massacre  itself  the  pious 
friar  neglected  to  explain. 

The  next  day  we  came  to  the  old  silver  mine  in  the 
Comanche  range  where  the  good  priests  had  worked 
their  Indian  converts.  Bowie,  however,  did  not  over- 
flow with  that  enthusiasm  one  might  expect  after  we  had 
passed  through  so  much  to  get  here.  His  deep-set  gray 


28  THE  LONE  STAR 

eyes  lighted  with  banter  as  Lush  Yandell  went  burrowing 
like  a  famished  wolf  through  the  deserted  tunnels. 
With  Deaf  Smith  Bowie  lounged  on  his  blanket  and 
smoked  near  where  Black  Jim  was  fixing  supper. 
Later,  while  we  ate,  he  peered  from  one  glum  counte- 
nance to  another  in  whimsical  tolerance. 

"You  all  satisfied?"  he  questioned  gently. 

Yandell  was  scowling  at  a  piece  of  ore  from  the  diggings. 
Now  he  flung  it  vengefully  at  a  coyote  hovering  darkly 
beyond  the  range  of  our  camp  fire. 

"Satisfied?"  he  growled.  "Where's  the  silver  we 
come  fur — eh?  They  ain't  none  left,  an'  that's 

"Exactly  what  I  mean,"  said  Bowie.  "You're  satis- 
fied there's  no  use  staying  heah?" 

"We  sure  are,"  returned  Deaf  Smith  stoutly.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  pack  more  strategy  in  three  words. 

"Then,"  said  Bowie,  "we  might's  well  be  moving  on, 
I  reckon." 

And  we  did,  starting  early  the  next  morning.  But 
instead  of  turning  back  toward  San  Antonio,  Deaf  Smith 
chose  for  us  a  barely  perceptible  trace  heading  north- 
east. Yandell  was  alongside  in  a  moment,  asking 
Bowie  what  it  meant. 

"W'y,  I  s'pose,  Lush,"  said  Bob  Armstrong,  "it's 
account  of  them  hos-tiles  to  the  south.  Got  to  go  round 
'em,  don't  we?" 

But  when  Yandell  had  fallen  behind  out  of  hearing 
Armstrong  looked  at  Bowie  reproachfully. 

"Of  coh'se,  Bob,"  I  heard  Bowie  say,  "I'll  tell  you, 
and  the  rest  too,  except  that  woolly  Yahoo  of  a  Yandell. 
He  was  just  bound  he'd  come,  you  know,  soon  as  he 
heard  we  were  after  silver  mines.  But  I  reckon  also," 
said  Bowie,  "that  his  lordship,  the  Jefe  Politico, 
wanted  him  to  come." 

"You  mean  he's  a  spy?     Just  let  me " 


"BIG  DRUNK"  29 

"No,  no,  Bob,  don't  huh't  him — yet.  He'll  not  likely 
go  with  us,  all  the  way.  He's  got  some  reasons  of  his 
own  for  keeping  out  of  the  States." 

"Living  Ginger,  Jim,  we're  not  going " 

"Well,  just  to  the  Territory,  say." 

Bob  Armstrong  looked  the  admiration  a  good  mystery 
should  always  evoke.  He  put  the  question  tingling 
on  my  own  lips. 

"Lord  bless  us,  but  what  we  going  there  for?" 

Bowie  smiled  in  a  far-off  sort  of  way.  "Just  may- 
be," he  said,  "because  there's  a  ceht'n  American  we'll  be 
needing — just  maybe,  understand? — in  Texas  before 
long." 

"Shucks,  Jim,  why  don't  you  say  a  thousand  certain 
Americans,  with  shotguns? " 

"This  one  is  a  thousand,"  said  Bowie  quietly. 

"Not — not  Andy  Jackson?" 

Whereupon  it  was  suggested  to  Bob  that  he  should 
just  breathe  along,  and  in  good  time  he  might  learn 
more.  And  as  for  the  San  Saba  diggings;  pshaw,  Deaf 
Smith  could  have  told  us  before  we  started  that  the  old 
gopher  holes  weren't  worth  a  coon  skin.  But  the 
Mexican  officials  were  getting  that  infernal  curious 
about  the  doings  of  settlers  nowadays,  our  expedition 
simply  had  to  have  some  good  excuse. 

A  weighty  intrigue  was  afoot,  so  much  was  apparent, 
and  perhaps  I  had  not  come  to  Texas  too  late  after  all. 
Lofty  imagining  henceforth  vivified  the  big  country 
through  which  we  travelled,  where  only  big  men  and  big 
ideas  might  flourish,  and  where  the  little  and  the  mean 
shrivelled  as  leaves  in  a  blasting  norther.  This  big 
country  I  made  already  the  setting  of  a  drama  as  colossal 
in  proportion,  when  the  big  and  the  little  would  meet  in 
tragic  conflict,  and  end  with  the  Inevitable,  as  is  the 
way  of  tragedies. 


3o  THE  LONE  STAR 

We  crossed  the  river  and  mountains  bearing  the 
name,  though  hardly  the  description,  of  Colorado. 
Over  rolling  plains  we  followed  a  trail  that  was  a 
thoroughfare  before  the  time  of  the  white  men,  before 
even  the  time  of  the  red  men.  It  had  been  made  by 
buffalo  herds,  which  unerringly  blazed  the  shortest  path 
to  a  ford  or  the  easiest  through  the  hills.  We  were 
glad  of  this  royal  road  when  we  struck  the  weed  prairie, 
for  here  the  tall  grass  closed  over  our  heads,  and  a  man 
ten  feet  off  the  trail  was  lost.  We  rounded  the  High 
Peak,  and  forded  the  Brazos,  and  threaded  that  wooded 
gulf  stream  of  the  prairie  known  as  the  Cross  Timber. 
We  dined  on  hominy  flavoured  with  hickory  nuts  at  a 
Caddo  village,  and  the  Indians  here  traded  us  some 
horses.  We  had  antelope,  and  elk,  and  wild  turkey, 
and  bob-whites,  and  swamp  rabbits  in  the  timbered 
bottoms,  and  as  Dan  Buchanan  was  a  tolerable  bee 
hunter,  liking  honey  and  "bitter  twist"  impartially, 
we  had  wild  honey  too.  Altogether  we  lived  as  the 
elect  of  the  earth,  except  that  I  hardened  slowly  to 
rattlers  and  chiggers  and  the  coyote's  dismal  howl. 
The  Black  Betty  passed  freely,  until  the  liquor  was  all 
gone,  and  once,  two  of  our  party  scouting  ahead  took  a 
pot  shot  at  an  Indian  as  casually  as  at  a  catamount. 
But  this  was  not  an  unusual  attitude  toward  red  men. 

It  is  a  fact  that  one  sometimes  gets  out  of  Texas, 
provided  he  travels  long  enough,  and  at  last  we  crossed 
the  Red  River  over  into  the  Territory  of  Arkansas. 
Then  one  night,  when  we  were  near  Cantonment  Gibson, 
our  friend  Yandell  vanished  from  camp.  The  proximity 
of  American  soldiers  was  too  much  for  him,  no  doubt. 

On  the  hill  above  Grand  River,  almost  in  the  shadow 
of  the  blue  Ozarks,  we  were  welcomed  to  the  outpost  of 
America's  wild  new  empire  of  the  Southwest.  The 
commandant  at  the  time  had  for  guest  an  eminent 


3* 

story-teller  who  chose  to  live  in  a  tent  that  he  might 
win  over  the  gentle  Osages  and  Cherokees  to  reveal 
their  legends. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Irving,"  Bowie  said  to  him  that 
evening  at  mess,  "you've  only  come  to  the  edge  of  your 
story.  Cross  ovuh  to  Texas  with  us,  suh,  and  we'll 
promise  you  a  real  interesting  one  befo'  so  very  long." 

Mr.  Washington  Irving  stirred  with  professional 
interest.  He  rather  thought,  he  said,  that  the  story  had 
already  begun,  if  one  might  judge  of  the  dashing  manner 
in  which  the  Mexican  garrisons  had  been  expelled,  and  of 
every  martial  youth  in  the  States  yearning  to  volunteer 
for  Texas  at  once.  The  jovial  Mr.  Irving  was  tempted 
himself,  and  we  of  Texas  with  our  big  story  lost 
much  because  he  did  not  come  on  down  to  write  it  for 
us.  At  the  time,  I  stood  most  in  awe  of  him  because 
he  had  actually  talked  with  the  author  of  "Ivanhoe," 
and  I  fretted  to  ask  him  lots  of  questions,  but  was  too 
diffident  to  intrude. 

Bowie  and  the  commandant  were  at  table  nearly  all 
night  long,  so  their  conversation  must  have  been  ab- 
sorbing. Perhaps  they  discussed  Indians,  whom  the 
Mexicans  were  supposed  to  be  arousing  against  settlers 
in  Texas,  and  perhaps  the  American  troops  north  of  the 
border  might  influence  the  redskins  south  of  it  to  good 
behaviour.  Perhaps  they  whispered  that,  though  "the 
folks  at  Washington  were  infernally  squeamish  over 
appearances,"  "Old  Hickory"  himself  would  not  pine 
away  even  if  some  United  States  soldiers  did  happen  to 
stray  across  the  Red  River. 

"At  any  rate,  sir,"  said  the  commandant  to  Bowie  at 
the  officers'  mess  next  morning,  "the  man  you've  come 
to  see  probably  knows  more  about  what  runs  in  Andy's" 
stubborn  old   head   on   this  Texas  business    than    all 
Washington   put   together.      Ask  at   any    wigwam   for 


32  THE  LONE  STAR 

Co-lon-neh,  for  that's  his  Indian  name.  It  means  The 
Raven,  and  they  call  him  that,  account  of  his  black  hair. 
Or,"  the  commandant  went  on,  not  so  much  with  a 
sneer  as  in  genuine  compassion,  "you  might  ask  for  Big 
Drunk.  Fact  is,  he's  sunk  so  the  Indians  laugh  at  him 
almost  as  much  as  they  love  him.  He's  one  of  'em,  too; 
an  out-and-out  chief.  Mars  and  little  Jumping  Jupe, 
that's  nothing,  sir.  Why,  the  man's  whole  career  is  a 
surprise  box,  a  regular  ammunition  chest  of  off-hand 
explosions." 

A  bizarre  citizen,  by  all  odds,  to  be  so  zealously 
desired  of  Texas! 

We  rowed  across  the  little  river  called  the  Grand,  and 
on  the  other  side  we  found  ourselves  among  the  farms  of 
the  Cherokees.  At  one  cabin  or  another,  for  this  unusual 
breed  of  red  man  no  longer  lived  in  wigwams,  we  were 
directed  by  grunts  and  gestures,  and  we  kept  on  through 
fields  of  maize  to  a  trading  post  near  where  the  Grand 
is  joined  by  the  Verdigris. 

"His  shack,  I  reckon,"  said  Bowie.  "He  runs  the 
agency  heah." 

We  picked  our  way  into  an  atmosphere  of  salt  pork 
and  brown  sugar,  and  Bob  Armstrong  called  for  liquor. 
An  Indian  girl,  tall  and  supple — and  she  was  pretty 
in  a  queenly,  barbaric  way — came  from  an  inner  room, 
and  shook  her  head.  They  did  not  keep  liquor,  she  said. 

"None  to  sell,"  murmured  Bowie,  turning  to  us,  "and 
yet  they  call  him  Big  Drunk." 

The  girl  caught  the  word,  and  her  dark  eyes  blazed. 

"Go,  he  back  there,"  she  said.  "Go,  he  answer  you 
that,  hisself." 

Bowie  desired  nothing  better,  and  almost  too  readily 
he  led  toward  the  inner  room.  "Stop!"  she  cried. 
"Why  you  want  him?"  Her  whole  lithe  body  was 
appealing.  "You  f'um  Texas,  yes?  Uh,  he  talk  sad 


"BIG  DRUNK"  33 

sometime  'bout  down  there.  You  get  him  go,  tell 
me?" 

Her  bosom  filled,  and  she  stiffened  rigidly. 

"Um,  yes,  mebby  better  so,"  she  said  proudly.  "For 
him,  yes.  Go,  he  in  there." 

I  believe  those  tales,  now,  of  tortured  Indians  who 
scorn  to  writhe. 

We  passed  into  the  back  room.  It  was  of  logs,  and 
low  and  mean.  A  heap  of  blankets  lay  on  the  hard 
earth  floor.  Jerked  meats  and  peppers  hung  from  the 
ridge  pole.  On  a  tree  stump  left  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  for  a  table  was  the  trough  of  ka-nau-hee-na,  or 
hominy.  But  near  this  greasy  trencher  lay  a  book,  an 
old  worn  book  of  battered  leather.  In  such  a  hovel  it 
caught  the  eye  as  a  locomotive  headlight.  Who  may 
believe  me,  this  book  was  the  "Iliad!"  I  could  not  have 
been  more  amazed  were  it  the  original,  instead  of  only 
Pope's  translation. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  cabin,  but  we  kicked  away  an 
inquisitive  sow  sniffing  at  an  open  door,  and  passed  on 
through  into  a  grove  of  cotton  woods.  Here,  under  the 
nearest  tree,  we  found  a  man  sprawled  on  the  grass,  face 
downward.  His  was  a  huge,  blanketed  figure,  and  the 
great  flat  expanse  of  his  shoulders  rose  and  fell  with  each 
heavy  drunken  breath.  He  wore  moccasins,  mud- 
stained  leggings,  yellow  leather  breeches,  and  a  soiled 
buckskin  hunting  shirt  on  a  time  gaudy  with  beaded 
ornaments.  His  wavy  dark  hair  was  braided  into  an 
Indian  queue,  in  which,  awry  or  half  falling  out,  were 
some  long  eagle  feathers. 

Bowie  turned  on  us  in  comical  dismay.  "I  am 
looking,"  he  said,  "fo'  a  gentleman  who  fought  undeh 
Jackson,  who  se'ved  his  country  in  Congress,  who  was 
guv'nor  of  Tennessee;  and  I  am  directed,  gentlemen,  I 
am  directed  to  an  Indian  sot."  And  with  the  frank 


34  THE  LONE  STAR 

smile  that  so  belittled  others,  he  thrust  his  toe  under  the 
man's  body  and  rolled  him  over  on  his  back. 

We  stood  amazed.  The  man's  skin  was  as  white  as 
our  own.  The  bloodshot  eyes,  opening  on  us  under 
stern  brows,  slowly  gathered  fury,  and  when  he  rose, 
deliberately  and  majestically  for  one  in  his  condition, 
and  straightened  to  his  august  height,  and  fastened  that 
gaze  upon  the  man  who  had  dared  touch  a  foot  to  him,  for 
the  life  of  me  I  could  see  none  less  than  a  deeply  angered 
Southern  gentleman.  For  all  his  vagabond  attire,  I 
expected  from  his  lips  a  stately  challenge.  We  looked 
at  first  to  see  him  strike,  but  he  clamped  down  his  wrath, 
and  his  wrath  then  grew  as  cold  as  death.  Yet  more 
than  his  anger,  which  made  us  forget  his  grotesque 
dress,  more  than  his  vast  dignity,  which  in  the  dramatic 
moment  overwhelmed  a  hint  of  something  ponderous 
and  theatrical,  more  than  these  was  a  loneliness  in  the 
massive,  towering  form  that  smote  us  as  inexpressibly 
sad. 

"Yo*  pardon,  suh,"  said  Bowie  heartily,  "but  I  am 
looking  for  one  whom  they  call  Co-lon-neh." 

"Well  then,  sir," — the  voice  was  of  the  deep,  bold  tone 
of  rolling  thunder — "and  now  that  you  have  found  him, 
sir?" 

"Then  you  are " 

"I  have  said  so,  suh." 

"I,  uh — my  name  is  Bowie,  suh." 

"Bowie?"  For  the  first  time  the  man  seemed  aware 
of  his  mean  condition.  "Great  Jove," — his  thunderous 
voice  swelled  to  mighty  volume — "  I  am  known  in  Texas 
then!  A  vagrant  in  my  own  country,  but  yet  I  am  known 
in  Texas!  And  they  send — they  send  Colonel  James 
Bowie — a-h!" 

"The  matter  came  up,  suh,"  said  our  leader,  "during  a 
convention  we  held  last  month  at  San  Felipe  de  Austin." 


"BIG  DRUNK"  35 

"I  have  heard  of  that  meeting  of  righteously  indig- 
nant settlers,  sir,  but,"  and  here  the  rich  voice  broke  in 
eagerness,  pleading  for  contradiction,  "but  I  had  sup- 
posed, gentlemen,  what  with  the  liberty-loving  General 
Santa  Ana  striding  to  honest  power  over  the  tyrant's 
fallen  reins,  that — h'm — by  God,  that  your  troubles  were 
at  an  end." 

Bowie  pushed  back  his  hat,  ran  his  hand  through  the 
curly  red  hair,  and  surveyed  the  man  keenly,  in  doubt 
whether  this  were  simplicity  or  craft.  Beside  me  I 
heard  Deaf  Smith  mumble  his  favourite  comment, 
"Words,  jes'  words!" 

"We  hope  so,  suh,"  Bowie  replied,  "and  we  do  not 
want  for  promises,  either.  But  just  the  same,  when  we 
called  this  little  meeting  together  to  ask  for  a  state 
government  of  our  own — you  unduhstand  that  Texas  is 
now  a  part  of  the  State  of  Coahuila? — why,  the  Mexicans 
deplored  the  whole  proceeding  as  treason,  and  they're 
scared  of  us  worse  than  ever." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  sir,"  thundered  the  master- 
ful barbarian,  "that  they  deny  the  right  of  petition? 
And  your  answer  to  that?" 

"Got  him!"  said  Bob  Armstrong  in  that  deep  satis- 
faction having  reference,  usually,  to  a  dead  Indian. 

"Well,"  said  Bowie,  laughing,  "perhaps  some  of  us 
did  wonduh,  a  little  bit,  where  we'd  be  likely  to  find  a — 
well,  you  know — a  commander-in-chief." 

The  magnificent  form  of  our  host  trembled.  The 
gaudy  blanket  slipped  to  the  ground,  and  with  it  that 
vile  title  of  "Big  Drunk"  seemed  to  fall  from  him,  and 
he  stood  before  us,  the  paleface  viking  emerging  from 
the  dissolute  Indian  chief.  But  his  utter  loneliness  was 
there  still,  and  his  look  of  gratitude  as  he  gazed  anew 
at  Bowie,  then  to  one  and  another  of  the  hardy 
fellows  in  fringed  buckskin,  was  the  hope  of  a  wretch 


36  THE  LONE  STAR 

being  tendered  again  his  squandered  birthright  of 
manhood. 

I  remembered  that  battered  copy  of  the  "Iliad,"  the 
manual  of  manhood,  beside  his  swinish  trough,  and  if 
this  drunkard  in  his  gutter  could  rise  again,  then  why  not 
I,  despite  my  late  degradation  of  soul?  I  felt  his  superb 
strength,  and  I  hoped  fervently  that  he  might  try,  and 
I  would  follow,  humbly,  obscurely,  so  only  in  my 
own  heart  I  should  one  day  know  that  I  had  reached 
the  goal. 

"Now  then,"  said  Bowie,  "the  Commander-in-chief 
being  strictly  behind  the  scenes,  we  will  keep  him  theah. 
Besides,  if  promises  are  kept,  he'll  nevuh  get  his  cue. 
So,  to  change  the  subject — unduhstand,  suh,  to  change 
the  subject! — we've  been  troubled  lately  with  Indian 
raids." 

"By  our  Indians?"  asked  Co-lon-neh,  still  keen  for 
hidden  meanings. 

"Yes,  and  according  to  treaty  agreement  the  United 
States  should  keep  them  on  this  side  the  bawduh. 
Accordingly  our  convention,  being  aware  of  your 
influence  over  them,  was  hoping  you  might  consent 
to  visit  Texas  and  induce  them  to  return.  President 
Jackson,  I  am  ceht'n,  would  be  greatly  interested  in 
seeing,  with  your  eyes,  what — uh — what  you  will  see 
in  Texas,  suh." 

For  a  moment  Co-lon-neh's  penetrating  eyes  held 
Bowie's,  and  his  great  chest  filled  deeply.  Then, 
abruptly,  he  turned  from  us  and  began  walking  up  and 
down  under  the  cottonwood,  like  a  lion  scenting  freedom. 
I  wondered,  more  than  ever,  who  the  magnificent 
barbarian  could  be. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  stopped,  and  addressed  us  solemnly, 
"gentlemen,  mark  my  words,  and  mark  them  well. 
Sam  Houston  will  some  day  be  the  president  of  a 


"BIG  DRUNK"  37 

republic.  He  will!  By  'heaven's  eternal  doom,'  he  will! 
Sam  Houston ." 

We  stirred  in  bewilderment,  and  he  paused,  glowing, 
satisfied  with  the  effect  of  his  words. 

"Houston?"  exclaimed  Armstrong,  glancing  rapidly 
from  Bowie  to  Deaf  Smith.  "What's  all  this  here  got 
to  do  with  Governor  Houston?" 

The  mysterious  stranger  flung  wide  his  powerful  arms. 

"Sam  Houston,  gentlemen,"  he  announced,  "stands 
before  you." 

We  stared,  and  saw  a  man  whose  spectacular  career 
was  the  gossip  of  the  continent.  He  was  the  hero  of  Horse- 
shoe Bend.  In  that  battle  a  Creek  arrow  had  pierced 
his  groin,  and  General  Jackson  positively  ordered  him 
out  of  the  fight.  He  disobeyed,  and  charged  the  Indians 
single-handed  up  a  narrow  gorge.  Two  bullets  riddled 
his  shoulder,  and  he  lay  all  that  night  on  the  wet  ground. 
The  surgeons  could  waste  no  time  on  a  man  so  nearly 
dead.  But  he  was  still  alive  the  next  morning,  and 
they  carried  him  on  a  litter  sixty  miles  to  an  army  post, 
then  three  hundred  miles  to  his  mother's  cabin.  He 
was  worn  to  a  skeleton,  and  the  doctors  would  not 
take  his  case  until  he  surprised  them,  as  was  his  habit 
with  all  men,  by  refusing  to  die.  He  lived  to  go  to  Con- 
gress, to  be  elected  governor  of  Tennessee.  He  married, 
and  two  months  later  vanished  from  the  executive 
mansion,  never  clearing  the  mystery  of  whatever  domes- 
tic trouble  had  forced  him  to  it.  And  here  he  was, 
among  his  old  boyhood  friends,  the  Cherokees.  He 
protected  them  from  thieving  contractors,  from  swind- 
ling politicians,  from  their  own  appetites  for  fiery  liquor. 

But  here  he  was,  nearer  dead  now  than  at  Horse- 
shoe Bend.  It  was  death  morally;  the  curse  of  lone- 
liness and  despair,  and,  to  forget  the  same,  the  greater 
curse  of  drunken  sloth.  This  man  before  me,  not  yet 


38  THE  LONE  STAR 

forty,  had  won  and  lost  already  more  than  I  could  ever 
hope  to  win  during  my  whole  life.  But  in  his  struggle  to 
begin  anew  there  was  for  me  an  inspiration  I  had  never 
found  in  books. 

"Yes,  gentlemen,"  he  was  saying  in  his  exaltation, 
"Drunken  Sam  attaints  the  lustre  of  a  former  name,  and 
Drunken  Sam  remains  behind.  But  Sam  Houston, 
gentlemen,  Sam  Houston  will  go  with  you  to  Texas." 


CHAPTER  IV 
"G.  T.  T." 

WE  REMAINED  at  Fort  Gibson  several  weeks  longer. 
Our  notable  recruit,  Governor  Houston,  had  to 
send  an  express  to  the  "War  Department  at  Washington. 
His  message  concerned  more  intimately  President 
Jackson  himself.  Years  before  Andrew  Jackson  had 
been  the  curbstone  champion  of  Aaron  Burr,  at  the 
time  when  Aaron  Burr  was  being  tried  for  designs  on  the 
very  region  to  which  we  were  now  taking  Andrew 
Jackson's  friend. 

We  easily  passed  the  time  at  the  rude  wooden  bar- 
racks among  our  new  trencher-mates,  or  in  hunting  and 
fishing  with  an  Osage  for  guide.  Mr.  Irving's  jovial 
laugh  was  a  treat  to  be  sought,  and  I  had  chances  in 
plenty  for  private  details  about  "Ivanhoe,"  but 
"Ivanhoe's"  importance  had  somehow  dwindled.  He 
was  only  the  Crusader  of  a  book,  after  all,  and  he 
shrank  to  picayunish  proportions  beside  the  real  and 
living  one  we  had  enlisted. 

This  chief  in  gaudy  red  blanket,  by  "fate  resistless 
from  his  country  led,"  as  he  himself  quoted,  was  not 
averse  to  youngsters,  and  when  he  distinguished  me,  as 
he  did  the  others,  with  a  warm  hand  clasp,  the  smile  on 
his  big  splendid  mouth  was  like  the  conferring  of  a  title 
of  nobility.  I  knew  Sam  Houston  for  his  kind  heart 
then,  and  his  courtly  dignity  was  no  longer  a  bar  to 
fellowship. 

"Why,  great  Jove,  and  let  him  blast  me,"  he 
exclaimed,  his  voice  softening  to  a  whimsical  Tennessee 

39 


40  THE  LONE  STAR 

drawl,  "if  it  wasn't  your  father,  my  boy,  that  I  met 
years  ago  on  the  identical  first  steamboat  to  go  down 
the  Miss'ippi.  I  had  to  get  this  shoulder  sewed  up  a 
little  tighter  at  New  Orleans,  while  your  daddy  was  going 
to  the  same  place  to  be  governor  of  Louisiana.  Though," 
he  added,  winking  gravely,  "I  don't  recollect  the  young 
rascal  mentioning  any  such  purpose  at  the  time.  Do 
you  reckon,  now,  it  was  because  he  didn't  know  it 
himself?" 

Houston's  stupor  and  melancholy  were  gone.  His  one 
relapse  into  gloom  was  when  he  parted  with  Tyania, 
the  stately  Indian  girl  who  was  his  tribal  wife.  She  was 
the  Stoic  as  ever.  When  we  rode  away,  and  he  turned 
to  look  back  on  his  humble  clearing,  and  gazed  long  at 
the  hut  under  the  cottonwoods,  she  gave  no  sigh,  but 
leaned  composedly  in  the  doorway,  seemingly  without 
interest.  Her  departing  brave  knew  better,  though. 
But  he  knew  too,  perhaps  even  then,  that  when  he  should 
send  for  her  later,  she  would  not  come,  lest  she  hinder 
his  rise  again  among  his  own  people. 

We  travelled  due  south  through  an  unbroken  forest  of 
pine  and  hickory,  or  through  oak-timbered  bottoms. 
Only  twice  between  Jonesboro  and  the  neighbourhood 
of  Nacogdoches  did  we  see  a  white  man's  habitation. 
One  was  the  wickiup  of  a  lone  hunter,  the  other  a  trap- 
per's clearing  in  the  Red  Lands.  The  hide-clad 
children  of  the  latter  stared  at  us  as  at  a  rare  species  of 
nomad,  and  even  for  his  raw-boned  wife  we  were  hardly 
a  memory.  Their  knowledge  of  the  red  brother,  though, 
was  infinite.  Rifle  slits  between  the  logs  attested  to 
that.  The  brats  of  toddling  age  could  each  make  a  notch 
for  a  first  Indian  slain.  Beside  our  campfire  the  grizzly 
lord  of  the  manor  fondly  recounted  these  exploits  of 
babes  as  another  father  might  gloat  over  a  little 
one's  first  babbling  words.  We  had  here  a  glimmer  of 


"G.  T.  T."  41 

understanding  why  Texas  was  the  American's  heritage, 
the  American's  only.  That  log  cabin  held  the  future  of 
the  wilderness,  had  there  been  a  prophet  among  us  to 
read  the  signs. 

But  now  for  a  poignant  encounter  of  my  own!  We 
were  traversing  the  Neutral  Ground,  the  old  desperado 
paradise  of  the  Spaniard's  day.  I  had  craved  the  sen- 
sation of  knowing  that  I  was  actually  'mid  the  scenes  of 
the  fearsome  tales  that  had  crowded  my  boyhood.  So 
when  we  crossed  the  Red  River  at  Fort  Towson,  I  told 
myself  that  from  here  on  to  the  Sabine  lay  the  neutral 
zone  about  which  our  country  and  Spain  had  agreed  to 
disagree,  since  neither  could  fix  the  boundary  according 
to  the  ideas  of  the  other.  Here,  then,  in  dark  forests  and 
swampy  bottoms  where  no  law  prevailed,  bands  of  red- 
handed  prowlers  used  to  enact  awesome  tableaux  to  the 
shuddering  delight  of  every  nursery  in  Civilisation. 

There  were  thickets  for  ambuscades,  and  dark  ravines 
for  murder,  and  hollow  oaks,  vine-covered  and  mossy, 
for  plunder.  Easily  enough  I  identified  the  setting  for 
crimson  melodrama.  Over  on  the  Arkansas  side  the 
woods  were  as  dense,  the  gloom  as  impenetrable,  but  on 
this  side  fancy  deepened  every  tone,  and  here  in  this 
haunted  forest  I  would  not  have  bartered  one  moan  of 
the  ghostly  whip-poor-will  for  the  most  lugubrious  wolf 
howl  north  of  the  Red  River. 

Our  merry  company,  and  the  Black  Betty  going  from 
lip  to  lip,  would  have  shattered  these  illusions,  so  it 
happened  that  I  was  riding  on  ahead  beyond  the  echoes 
of  their  laughter.  Bowie  had  warned  me  that  I  stood  a 
fair  shake  of  being  potted  from  ambush  by  any  lone 
Indian,  but  the  danger,  being  unseen,  merely  added 
piquancy  to  my  imaginings.  I  practised  an  alert  eye, 
and  feasted  on  the  thrill  of  testing  each  bush. 

Then  a  sharp  cracking  of  twigs  just  ahead  lifted  me 


42  THE  LONE  STAR 

out  of  my  reverie  and  saddle  both.  A  man  scrambled 
to  his  feet  from  a  spicewood  thicket  beside  the  trail,  and 
Lush  Yandell  himself  cocked  his  head  up  at  me  in  that 
brutish  leer  that  I  hated  so.  Here,  in  the  flesh,  rank, 
coarse,  ill-smelling  flesh,  was  a  hero  of  my  Neutral 
Ground,  but  the  uncouth  ruffian  miserably  belied  the 
glamour  of  it  all.  I  had  always  shrunk  from  the  man  in 
disgust,  though  not  meaning  to,  since  the  others  thought 
my  irritation  great  fun.  But  it  was  an  aversion  I  could 
not  help.  He  rasped  on  everything  there  was  in  me,  and 
I  loathed  him  from  head  to  foot.  The  heavy  insolence 
in  his  eyes  to  the  very  way  he  wrapped  rawhide 
thongs  around  his  ankles  above  his  moccasins,  was  ex- 
asperating beyond  measure.  He  was  puffy,  loutish, 
unclean.  The  greasy  black  hair  on  him  covered  the 
back  of  his  hands  to  the  finger  nails.  It  stuck  like 
bristles  from  ears  and  nostrils.  It  extended  raggedly 
to  his  cheek  bones,  but  on  one  side  higher  than  on  the 
other,  which  gave  his  face  the  vile,  misshapen  look  of 
some  impossible  beast.  I  know  that  this  is  not  very 
charitable,  and  you  must  not  decide  that  there  was  no 
good  in  Lush  Yandell,  since  there  is  some  in  all  men. 
But  the  fact  is,  that  an  antipathy  has  always  been  a  very 
virulent  affair  with  me,  though  happily  rare,  and  if 
these  recollections  are  to  have  the  one  virtue  of  honesty, 
then  the  antipathies  must  stalk  through  them  as 
inevitably  as  Banquo's  wraith  at  the  feast. 

Yandell  had  divined  these  feelings  that  I  could  not 
hide,  and  I  believe  it  was  his  pleasure  to  rouse  them  into 
a  kind  of  smothered  torture.  You  would  suspect  as 
much  now,  to  see  him  fill  his  old  red-clay  pipe  from  the 
wallet  contributed  by  the  dead  Indian;  also  from  the 
way  he  twisted  his  lop-sided  head  to  make  sure  of  my 
repugnance. 

"Huh,  our  little  compadrecito ,  ef  'tain't!"  he  began,- 


"G.  T.  T."  43 

and  to  my  alarm  he  mounted  his  horse,  which  he  had 
held  by  the  bridle  as  he  waited  among  the  bushes,  and 
crowded  me  half  off  the  trail  to  ride  beside  me. 

"Brung  Drunken  Sam  along  too,  eh?"  he  went  on, 
cutting  my  horse  with  his  quirt,  and  blowing  a  mouthful 
of  foul  smoke  across  my  face.  "Yes,  I  knowed  it  afore 
you'd  been  at  Fort  Gibson  two  days." 

"Then  where  were  youf"  I  asked. 

He  glowered  as  at  a  taunt,  and  I  recalled  Bowie's 
theory  concerning  his  reluctance  about  being  seen  in  the 
States.  Like  most  heroes  of  the  Neutral  Ground,  he 
was  very  likely  one  of  those  cynical  fugitives  who 
scrawled  "G.  T.  T." — "Gone  to  Texas" — on  their  doors 
before  disappearing. 

"Where?"  he  repeated,  not  without  a  swaggering 
triumph.  "I  followed  you,  that's  where.  Then  I 
tortled  on  back  to  San  'tone,  an'  then  this  way  ag'in. 
till  last  night  I  come  on  your  campfire." 

His  meaning  was  quite  plain.  He  had  informed  the 
Mexican  authorities  at  San  Antonio  of  our  errand,  and 
they  had  sent  him  back  to  meet  us.  But  why,  I  asked 
him,  had  he  not  made  himself  known  the  night  before  ? 

"Because,"  he  said,  laying  a  menacing  stress  on  each 
word,  "I  'lowed  for  to  talk  with  jus'  one  of  you  alone 
fust,  and  skin  me  if  you  won't  do,  mirac'lous." 

His  tone  made  me  nervous.  This  was  to  be  worse 
than  bullying. 

"  'Tain't  no  manner  of  use,"  he  proceeded  jovially. 
"/  cain't  help  bein'  curious,  an'  here  I  be,  a-guessin' 
my  inerds  out,  ez  to  what  Sam  Houston  means  by  it. 
Now  then,  my  gander-shanked  bantling,  does  it  so 
happen  thet  you  know?" 

I  tried  to  tell  him  that  he  might  ask  Governor  Houston 
himself. 

"What's  that?"  he  demanded  as  though  he  had  not 


44  THE  LONE  STAR 

heard  me.  "So,  and  this  low-down  squaw  man  means 
for  to  stir  up  the  revolutioners,  ye  say?" 

I  stammered  angrily,  yet  trembled  with  foreboding. 
I  felt  that  I  was  being  drawn  already  into  the  vortex 
of  seething  events. 

Yandell  jerked  back  his  horse  until  I  was  fairly  along- 
side, where  he  could  have  me  under  his  hairy  fist. 
"Mebbe,"  he  said,  his  tone  changing  to  a  growl  and  a 
threat,  "jus'  mebbe  now  ye'll  be  after  sayin',  now  ur 
later,  thet  'tain't  so?" 

He  meant  to  frighten  me  into  becoming  his  tool,  but 
while  my  conception  of  a  stinging  reply  was  brave 
enough,  yet  the  brave  words  would  not  come. 

"My  gran'mam  for  a  pussy  cat,"  he  laughed  viciously, 
"ef  ye  ain't  wheezin'  like  a  sick  steamboat!  Bulldog 
stock,  eh?  Guv'ner  Gen'ral  Jedge  Ripley  yuh  pa,  eh? 
Oh,  you  poor  little  milk-livered  pink-face,  an'  do  ye 
want  to  know  what  ails  you?  Well,  ye've  been  licked 
in  your  fust  fight,  thet's  what,  an'  no  pup  ain't  ever 
any  good  after  that.  But — my  hide  in  hell  for  a  middlin' 
o'  bacon! — you  are  goin'  to  be  useful!  Useful  to  me, 
mirac'lous  useful,  useful  ez " 

But  digging  his  spurs  heartlessly,  he  was  gone,  and 
soon  after  disappeared  ahead  in  the  narrowing  of  the 
forest  path.  He  left  me  burning  inside  like  a  tar-kiln, 
as  Davy  Crockett  would  say,  and  I  smarted  all  over. 
It  was  not  alone  his  gloating  assumption  that  he  could 
exploit  my  broken  spirit  for  his  own  uses,  but  also  my 
feeling  that  there  should  have  been  retaliation  before 
he  got  away.  Yet  what  retaliation  was  there?  I  could 
not  thrash  him.  And  to  draw  a  pistol  with  any  luck 
to  myself  would  have  meant  killing  him,  but,  thank 
Heaven,  I  wanted  no  human  life  as  a  balm  to  pride.  So 
I  tried  to  laugh  at  my  chagrin.  After  all,  it  was  more 
comical  than  otherwise,  and  the  boorish  Yandell  was  too. 


"G.  T.  T."  45 

Also  I  had  an  inkling  deep  down  in  me  of  a  superiority 
over  his  bullying,  fat-witted  vanity.  But  still,  I  had 
not  demonstrated  it,  and  in  that  lay  the  smart. 

I  slackened  pace  until  the  others  came  up,  and  told 
them  of  Yandell's  spying.  But  the  trouble  obviously 
preparing  ahead  only  amused  them.  No  one  even 
suggested  a  change  of  route.  The  old  rerkless  daring 
mocked  the  future  in  Bowie's  gray  eyes. 

"I  don't  reckon,"  he  laughed,  glancing  af  Houston's 
magnificent  blanketed  figure,  "that  we  can  keep  him 
a  secret,  nohow." 

So  the  little  riffle  flattened  to  the  placid  surface  of 
things,  as  did  also  any  inflation  I  may  have  had  over  the 
momentous  significance  of  my  news.  Inflation  is  a 
dream  hard  to  sustain,  in  Texas. 


CHAPTER  V 

A    REDLANDER    GIRL 

WE  LEFT  the  timber  bottoms  and  piney  hills  behind 
us,  and  came  at  last  upon  a  rolling  and  more 
open  country.  Here  were  the  Red  Lands,  and  luxurious 
they  were  and  beyond  any  I  had  ever  seen,  even  in 
Louisiana.  We  now  skirted  the  Texas  edge  of  the 
Neutral  Ground,  and  were  approaching  Nacogdoches, 
the  first  outpost  on  the  twenty-league  strip  of  deadline. 
It  was  an  outpost,  too,  of  every  adventure  heroic  or 
incarnadine.  Next  to  Bexar — or  San  Antonio,  as  we 
now  call  the  place — Nacogdoches  was  the  only  discern- 
ible town  in  the  Texas  of  Spanish  days.  While  Amer- 
icans were  yet  pummelling  England  for  freedom,  a  colony 
from  Louisiana  gave  Nacogdoches  her  being,  and  since 
then  every  blow  for  the  winning  of  Texas  had  gathered 
its  force  in  Louisiana  or  Mississippi,  and  from  Nacog- 
doches, or  on  Nacogdoches,  the  blow  always  fell  first. 
The  Spaniards  would  raze  the  town,  but  in  vain,  for 
back  across  the  Neutral  Ground  the  Americans  came 
again,  inevitably.  And  these  Americans  would  declare 
Mexico  independent  against  Spain,  or  themselves  so 
against  either. 

They  seemed  a  different  breed,  the  Redlanders,  from 
the  colonists  who  more  recently  had  followed  Stephen 
Austin.  Mr.  Austin's  settlers  counted  on  Mexican  good 
faith,  and  meant  to  be  loyal  Mexicans.  But  the  heritage 
of  the  Redlanders  was  turbulence.  And  many  settlers, 
passing  through  to  join  Austin,  breathed  the  Red  Land 

46 


A  REDLANDER  GIRL  47 

air,  and  aspired  to  the  heritage,  and  stayed  on  as  Red- 
landers  ever  after.  And  now  we  had  in  convoy  the 
noblest  Redlander  of  them  all.  For  Sam  Houston  may 
be  reckoned  as  just  that  ere  he  had  ever  set  foot  in 
Texas. 

The  day  after  my  encounter  with  Lush  Yandell  we 
came  among  the  settlements.  I  remember  the  first 
emblem  of  Civilisation.  Hardier  than  the  planted  flag, 
sturdier  for  conquest  than  garrisoned  legions,  there  it 
was,  clinging  to  the  land  in  homely,  tenacious  grip,  an 
ugly,  old,  zig-zag,  worm  fence.  After  the  wilderness 
it  was  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  to  the  eye.  In  the 
field  on  the  other  side  a  man  was  ploughing,  though  the 
month  was  December.  And  when  he  waved  his  hand 
to  us  and  roared  out,  "Howdy,  strangers! "  we  knew  that 
he  was  an  American. 

The  clearing  was  part  of  a  large  plantation,  if  I  may  use 
our  Louisiana  word  to  describe  several  thousand  acres 
where  cattle  grazed  and  swine  roamed  almost  wild  in 
groves  of  oak  and  pecan,  with  here  and  there  a  patch  of 
corn  or  cotton.  Later  in  the  afternoon  we  saw  a  thin 
column  of  smoke  over  the  tree  tops,  and  knew  that  we 
were  near  the  ranch  house. 

"Hope  we'll  catch  Old  Man  Buckalew  at  home,"  said 
Bowie  to  Houston.  "He's  alcalde — mayor,  you  know — 
of  Nacogdoches,  and  we're  on  his  place  now.  For  a 
compend  of  Texian  high  jinks,  suh,  Mr.  Buckalew  is 
ceht'nly  yo'  man,  and  I  want  you  to  meet  him." 

The  ranch  house,  which  stood  off  the  road  under  the 
trees,  was  a  species  of  overgrown  and  generously  overfed 
log  cabin.  At  every  angle  it  bulged  out  in  ells  and 
lean-to's.  A  covered  gallery  wide  enough  for  a  stage 
coach  ran  through  the  middle  from  front  to  back.  An 
enormous  red  brick  chimney  formed  most  of  the  wall 
on  one  side,  and  the  smoke  we  had  seen  curled  lazily 


48  THE  LONE  STAR 

from  its  sooty  muzzle,  and  was  wafted  over  the  roofs 
like  a  benediction.  It  was  a  very  solid  personality,  this 
red  brick  pile  of  chimney.  The  rest  of  the  house  seemed 
an  extension  only,  and  hung  upon  it  fondly,  comfortably 
dispensing  with  responsibility,  as  peasant  huts  cluster 
about  a  cathedral  tower  and  are  snugly  assured  of  the 
hope  of  heaven.  There  was  a  detached  kitchen,  and  a 
smokehouse  outlying.  In  the  distance  were  cowsheds  and 
barns;  and  to  one  side,  a  stone  fence  corral,  where  giddy 
colts  thrust  noses  at  us  with  inquisitive  neighings.  All 
of  this  was  not  much  in  the  way  of  being  imposing,  but 
I  understood  later,  from  my  own  trials,  what  an  aristoc- 
racy of  effort  and  sacrifice  the  humble  home  meant  in 
that  region  where  a  plough  was  a  rarity  and  every  rail 
split  an  event.  Debonair  French,  haughty  Spaniards, 
stolid  Mexicans,  each  had  tried  it  already.  But  no 
matter,  they  were  not  of  the  aristocracy. 

As  we  turned  off  the  road  toward  the  house,  with  a 
multitude  of  fox-hounds  scampering  around  us  in  wel- 
come, we  perceived  a  curious  assemblage  on  what  might 
be  called  Mr.  Buckalew's  lawn.  Human  beings  were 
of  themselves  an  odd  sight  for  us  lately,  and  these  num- 
bered fifty  or  more.  They  were  white  and  red  and 
tawny,  and  some  were  black  and  slaves  to  the  three 
other  colours.  We  galloped  forward  to  join  this  cos- 
mopolis  of  the  backwoods.  Americans,  Indians,  Mex- 
icans, and  Negroes,  they  were  having  a  cock-fight. 

Men  in  coonskin  caps,  men  in  sombreros,  blanketed 
men,  women  in  rebosas,  in  beads  and  fringed  deer-hide, 
some  with  babes  wrapped  to  their  breasts,  children 
hopping  about  in  almost  nothing  at  all,  dogs  sniffing, 
or  yelping  when  kicked,  roosters  crowing — yes,  it  was 
a  community  of  interest.  It  was  a  cock-fight.  Outside 
the  roped-in  circle  they  moved  around  or  they  waited 
stolidly.  Birds  were  matched,  with  argument,  with 


A  REDLANDER  GIRL  49 

gesture.  Purses  were  made  up,  with  pennies,  with 
measures  of  corn,  with  bear  robes.  Wagers  were  offered, 
or  taken,  or  refused,  with  shrugs,  with  grunts.  There 
was  more  decorum  than  at  a  stock  exchange.  A  rooster 
strained  against  his  cord  for  a  preliminary  peck  at  a 
feathered  neighbour.  We  drew  rein,  and  were  at  once 
absorbed.  It  was  a  community  of  interest. 

The  business  was  well  forward,  and  even  the  advent 
of  strangers  got  only  casual  glances.  A  crusty  old 
fellow  with  shaggy,  iron-gray  moustache  and  tortoise- 
shell  spectacles  was  fairly  pulling  Bowie  off  his  horse, 
and  ordering  the  rest  of  us  to  the  ground.  I  had 
drawn  a  little  apart,  and  could  watch  undisturbed;  but 
it  was  not  for  the  cock-fight.  It  was  for  a  girl. 

She  was  a  slim,  exasperatingly  independent,  and 
graceful  little  creature  of  a  girl  in  short  leather  skirt — 
much  too  young,  of  course,  for  real  interest,  except  that 
I  wondered  what  kind  of  a  girl  it  could  be  who  was  tying 
the  gaff  on  a  gamecock.  Her  back  was  turned,  and  a 
strapping,  docile  young  fellow  was  holding  the  bird 
for  her.  She  seemed  very  deft  about  it,  as  she  fitted 
the  weapon  to  the  fowl's  blunted  spur  and  wound  the 
thong  around  its  hock.  The  gaff  was  fully  three-inches 
long,  and  curved  like  a  scythe.  It  was  as  slender  as 
the  thorn  called  the  Spanish  dagger,  and  had  an  edge 
like  a  razor.  This  murderous  finesse  was  truly  Mexican, 
I  thought,  and,  of  course,  the  girl  must  be  Mexican  too. 
At  any  rate  she  was  an  unfamiliar  species  of  girl.  It 
was  hard  enough  to  connect  the  sex  with  rooster  fights, 
but  still,  in  the  matter  of  girls,  when  there  are  certain 
disconcerting  tendril  effects  on  the  nape  of  the  neck, 
I'm  afraid  that  I  always  was  hopelessly  susceptible. 
Now,  Rosalie,  for  instance,  and — yes,  and  others.  But 
this  girl's  hair  was  black,  or  at  least  with  only  a  fugitive 
glint  of  deep  bronze,  and  it  was  very  lustrous,  and 


So  THE  LONE  STAR 

the  tendrils  did  not  have  that  clinging  quality  the 
word  implies.  They  were  aggressive  little  tresses  on 
their  own  account,  and  as  her  collar  was  turned  in, 
they  waved  over  a  neck  of  russet  tan.  There  was  quaint 
self-reliance  in  each  thing  she  did,  and  high  mettle 
showed  in  the  very  poise  of  her  girlish  figure.  I  could 
not  help  a  vague  sense  of  uneasiness  even  though  her 
back  was  turned.  I  dreaded  already  any  April  storm 
of  fury,  because  then  she  might  take  it  into  her  head 
to  stamp  her  foot. 

She  resigned  her  plumed  champion  to  the  strapping, 
docile  young  fellow  at  last,  who  slipped  a  leather  sheath 
over  the  gaff,  and  performed  such  manoeuvres  as  blowing 
into  the  rooster's  beak,  or  pulling  his  toes  until  the 
knuckles  cracked,  or  holding  him  out  to  peck  his  adver- 
sary, so  that  there  might  be  no  question  of  love  and 
affection  between  the  two  gladiators  later  on. 

The  girl  looked  around  now  to  see  who  the  newcomers 
were,  and  to  my  disappointment  she  was  not  Mexican 
at  all.  She  was  American,  from  the  toe  of  her  boot  to 
the  resolute  tilt  of  her  sombrero.  There  were  roses 
in  the  tan  of  her  cheeks,  and  high  up  on  her  brow,  at 
the  roots  of  her  hair,  the  skin  was  purest  white.  I  say 
that  I  was  disappointed,  because,  never  having  known 
any  Mexican  girls,  I  was  prepared  to  be  mightily  inter- 
ested in  one  of  them  officiating  at  a  cock  main.  But 
when  the  r61e  was  shifted  to  a  girl  of  my  own  race — well, 
all  the  glamour  faded  out.  Besides,  she  was  only  about 
sixteen. 

However,  there's  one  thing  I  like  to  believe  of  those 
half-baked  days  of  my  youth;  which  is,  that  at  least  I 
was  not  a  prig.  Still,  to  see  an  American  girl  tying  on 
that  deadly  gaff  wrought  a  twinge  in  my  underdone 
scheme  for  the  universe,  a  scheme  that  combined  austere 
New  England  with  Louisiana's  soft  sense  for  beauty ,  The 


A  REDLANDER  GIRL  51 

scheme  was  not  in  the  least  adjusted  as  yet  to  such  racy 
unconventionalisms  as. Texas.  But  whether  approbation 
did  not  glow  on  my  countenance,  or  there  was  a  hint  of 
the  touring  stranger's  detached  curiosity,  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know,  but  I  do  know  that  high-spirited  retort 
flashed  in  those  eyes  of  hers  as  they  met  mine.  I  saw 
nothing  of  angry  crimson  under  the  soft  tan  and  possibly 
seven  freckles,  although  I  have  been  given  to  under- 
stand since  then  that  her  cheeks  were  on  fire.  However, 
she  coldly  looked  me  over  for  the  space  of  a  second, 
making  me  feel  uncomfortable  in  my  velvet-faced  manga 
and  Hessian  boots  and  all  the  rest  of  that  overpowering 
Indian-killer  outfit  as  contrived  by  New  Orleans  fur- 
nishers. Her  lips  pursed  up — lips  that  no  stain  from 
artificial  roses  could  have  made  redder — and  she  went 
on  to  mark  with  the  toe  of  her  boot  the  starting  lines 
for  the  two  gamecocks.  A  grande  dame  could  not  have 
done  it  better ;  that  is  to  say,  the  mental  dismissal  of  my- 
self. With  the  grande  dame  it  would  have  been  art.  With 
her  it  was  the  unconscious  arrogance  of  some  woodland 
creature.  Never,  not  even  in  the  settlements,  have  I 
met  so  wild  a  girl  as  was  this  little  black-eyed  Redlander. 
The  cock-fight  was  nothing  like  our  long  drawn-out 
mains  at  home.  When  released,  each  on  his  line,  the 
two  birds  crouched  and  leaped.  One,  the  girl's  cham- 
pion, went  over  the  other,  and  in  mid-air  kicked  his 
armed  spur  backward.  The  blow  could  no  more  be 
seen  than  the  stab  of  the  needle  in  a  sewing  machine, 
but  when  the  cock  alighted,  his  gaff  was  thinly  red. 
The  second  bird  leaped  again,  and  thrust.  But  he 
floundered  against  his  adversary,  and  sank  to  the  ground, 
his  eyes  closing,  the  feathers  on  his  breast  wet  and  soggy. 
The  first  cock  was  therefore  victor,  but  suddenly  his 
neck  crumpled  forward,  and  the  docile  young  farmer 
grabbed  him  up  and  laid  him  on  the  grass  outside  the 


5  2  THE  LONE  STAR 

ring,  where  he  collapsed  and  expired  before  his  victim 
did.  He  had  been  struck  in  the  head.  Both  were 
kicked  aside  as  useless  rubbish,  and  Americans,  Mexicans, 
Indians,  and  Negroes  moved  around  collecting  winnings 
from  the  stakeholders.  Affairs  seemed  to  be  quick  and 
decisive  and  deadly  in  this  new  country.  The  matter- 
of-fact  phase  of  killing  gave  me  a  pang.  There  should 
be  more-to-do  over  it.  For  once  I  leaned  to  books  and 
imagination  by  preference. 

"Oh  Nan!  Nan,  come  here!"  It  was  the  crusty  old 
fellow  of  the  tortoise-shell  spectacles  who  called.  "Now," 
he  demanded,  and  he  appeared  very  severe  about  it, 
"  where's  the  little  catamou't  now? " 

The  little  catamount's  hand  had  been  filled  with 
coppers  won  on  her  champion,  and  she  was  flinging 
them  about  among  the  pickaninnies  and  Mexican 
youngsters.  She  went  on  placidly,  and  paid  no  heed 
to  the  call.  But  the  imperious  old  gentleman  did  not 
take  the  high  hand  with  her  that  his  manner  led  us  to 
expect.  Apparently  he  forgot  all  about  her  the  next 
minute. 

"I  don't  reckon  now,"  he  said  plaintively,  suspecting 
a  grievance  in  advance,  "that  any  of  you  all  thought 
to  bring  along  a  couple  of  churchwardens?" 

He  looked  inquiringly  from  Bowie  to  Houston,  to 
Deaf  Smith,  to  Armstrong,  to  the  others,  but  never  a 
churchwarden  did  he  see.  His  wants  were  so  pious  and 
unusual  that  curiosity  drew  me  nearer. 

"Of  coh'se,"  he  said,  "you  didn't  get  further'n 
Arkansas,  and  I  take  it  churchwardens  are  considerable 
scarce  in  those  parts.  But  whatdo  you  think,  gentlemen," 
he  added  with  a  sigh,  "  this  here's  my  very  last  one." 

He  meant  the  delicate,  gracefully  curved,  long- 
stemmed  pipe  that  he  held  up  for  reverence.  With 
his  finger  he  tenderly  pressed  the  tobacco  in  the 


A  REDLANDER  GIRL  53 

coloured  bowl,  and  dismissed  his  gloom  in  a  soothing 
whiff. 

"Oh,  Nan,"  he  called  again,  abruptly  remembering. 
"Here,  Nan,  girl,  that  ought  to  do  'em  for  to-day. 
Ain't  no  sense  fighting  'em  faster'n  they  can  hatch,  no- 
how." His  nose  had  a  pugnacious  tilt,  and  you  would 
have  taken  oath  that  he  yearned  for  nothing  so  much 
as  contradiction,  yet  for  all  his  bossy  manner,  there  was 
grave  affection  in  the  mild  eyes  behind  the  tortoise- 
shell  spectacles.  "Now  Nan,"  he  went  on,  as  though 
it  were  a  good  thing  for  her  that  she  chose  to  heed  his 
mandates  at  last,  "here,  you  get  Zeb  to  take  the  horses 
of  these  gentlemen  and  bed  'em  snug.  And  Nan,  you're 
the  identical  girl  to  see  that  we  get  proper  fixings  for 
supper.  But  first  off,  we'll  want  a  sherry  cobbler. 

Here,  Nan Swear  myself  thunder  black  (which  he 

never  did),  and  give  you  salt  and  vinegar  topped 
off  with  lightning  too,  and  still  you  wouldn't  stand 
unhitched!  Here,  I  want  you  to  know  our  visitors. 
Know  Colonel  Bowie  already,  of  coh'se,  and  most  of 
the  rest,  but  here's  Governor  Houston.  My  daughter, 
sir,  Nan  Buckalew." 

The  girl's  hand  went  out  impulsively.  Her  pleasure 
was  evident.  I  wondered  how  it  must  feel  to  have 
people's  eyes  open  that  way  at  mention  of  your  name. 
But  our  great  man  in  this  instance,  with  his  Indian's 
blanket,  his  queue  done  up  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his 
beaded  moccasins,  and  his  white  hunting  shirt,  chose 
to  pay  honours,  not  to  receive  them.  His  chivalry 
was  stately ;  it  was  Southern.  He  doffed  his  mammoth 
beaver,  and  bent  over  the  little  sun-kissed  hand  as 
gallantly  as  if  his  attire  were  doublet  and  hose  and  a 
jaunty  sword. 

"And  this  young  man" — the  old  fellow's  hospitality 
was  scrupulously  impartial — "I  don't  reckon " 


54  THE  LONE  STAR 

"Why,"  said  Bowie,  presenting  me  as  I  slid  from  my 
horse,  "this  is  Harry  Ripley.  You  know,  Buck,  Judge 
Ripley'sboy?" 

Again,  and  to  my  great  amazement,  the  light  of  pleasure 
shone  in  the  girl's  eyes.  I  had  to  believe,  moreover,  that 
she  had  not  really  noticed  me  before,  even  though  she 
had  pursed  her  lips.  Faith,  I  was  centuries  younger 
that  moment  than  this  same  little  miss  in  short  skirts! 

"Why,  why,  why!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  the 
clearest  quality,  "why!"  she  exclaimed  again,  shaking 
my  hand,  "if  it  wasn't  your  father  then  who  helped 
Daddy  and  General  Long  and  Colonel  Bowie  and  all  of 
them,  the  time  the  Spaniards  chased  us — them,  I  mean,  as 
I  wasn't  born  just  then — chased  them  out  of  Texas,  and 
General  Long  paddled  all  the  way  from  Galveston  Island 
clear  to  New  Awlins  in  just  a  pirogue  to  get  more  men 
to  fight  them — the  Spaniards — with ;  and  if  it  wasn't  for 
Judge  Ripley  he  couldn't  have  got  them.  Oh,  I  know 
all  about  it,  even  if  I  wasn't  born  yet,  and  I'm  certainly 
mighty  glad  to  meet  you — uh,  Mr.  Ripley." 

The  girl  that  she  was!  And  the  sweet,  clear,  bell-like 
voice,  soft  in  our  Southern  accent,  tinkling  away! 
Heavens,  she  didn't  talk  half  enough!  And  twice  as 
much  would  still  not  have  been  half  enough.  But  she 
did  stop  at  last,  and  looked  me  frankly  in  the  eyes,  and 
smiled,  quite  out  of  breath. 

It  warmed  my  heart  to  hear  my  father  spoken  of 
like  this,  and  yet  I  was  not  content.  There  is  the 
word  hidalgo,  formed  from  hi  jo  de  algo,  which  means  the 
son  of  someone,  and  I  didn't  want  to  be  an  hidalgo.  I 
wanted  to  be  myself,  and  I  did  not  want  to  be  described 
in  terms  of  parentage.  Governor  Houston,  for  instance, 
could  claim  a  Revolutionary  sire,  yet  no  one  ever  thought 
to  mention  it.  Nan  Buckalew  did  not.  He  was  him- 
self; that's  the  point.  And  so  I  was  not  altogether 


A  REDLANDER  GIRL  55 

happy  because  the  girl's  pleased  look  went  over  my  head 
and  on  up  into  the  family  tree. 

Then,  as  ironical  fate  would  have  it,  the  chance  was 
given  to  show  myself  as  my  own  self.  And,  what  was 
worse,  I  did.  We  were  just  having  a  cobbler,  crowned 
to  Bacchus  in  a  grand  manner  by  Governor  Houston, 
when  who  should  come  galloping  down  on  us  but  Lush 
Yandell  himself.  The  precious  long-stemmed  clay 
trembled  in  Buckalew's  hand.  For  all  Buckalew's  serio- 
comic, half  surly  bulldog  way,  at  bottom  he  hated  to  be 
roused,  but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  Lush  Yandell  was 
not  welcome  at  Buckalew's.  The  disposition  for  hos- 
tilities was  much  readier  in  the  eyes  of  his  daughter 
Nan.  The  old  man  drew  near  her,  quite  as  a  mother 
would  draw  near  a  big  hot-tempered  son.  The  little 
black  derringer  she  wore  nearly  hidden  at  her  girdle 
could  not  be  for  ornament.  Yandell  did  not  dismount. 
"  His  lordship,"  he  began  at  once,  "which  is  the  Jefe  at 
San'  tone,  wants  thet  I  should  see  his  passports." 

"Passports?"  said  Buckalew.  "Whose  passports, 
suh?" 

"His'n,  Sam  Houston's.  Look-ee  here!"  Malevo- 
lently he  flaunted  a  document  out  of  his  tobacco  pouch. 
"It's  from  his  lordship.  It's  got  his  seal  an'  his  fist, 
an'  Dios  y  Libertad  for  pig-tight,  an'  it's  for  to  signify 
thet  Sefior  Yandell  is  a  deppity-secret  service.  An'  ez 
such,"  the  deputy  secret-made  proclamation,  "I  here- 
before — hereby — call  on  you,  Sefior  Buckalew,  alcalde." 

The  old  man  peered  up  through  the  tortoise-shell 
spectacles. 

"On  me,  Lush?" 

"Certin  sure!  Ain't  ye  the  alcalde  o'  Nacogdoches, 
I  want  to  know?  So  it's  passports  from  Sam  Houston, 
ur  git,  afore  they's  a  greasin'  o'  bullet  patches  in  Texas." 

Houston  appreciated  our  host's  quandary,  and  started 


S6  THE  LONE  STAR 

to  interrupt,  but  Bowie,  who  knew  the  old  man  so  well, 
pinched  Houston's  arm  for  silence. 

"C'rect,  Lush,"  Buckalew  was  saying,  "though,  as 
Goliah  mentioned  about  the  fling-stone,  that's  some- 
thing that  never  entered  my  head  before.  But  you  see 
now,  we  ain't  in  Nacogdoches,  and  anywheres  else  I'm 
not  alcalde." 

"Ye 're  boss  on  your  own  ranch,  I  reckin." 

"As  you've  maybe  noticed  before  now,  Lush  Yandell. 
But  p'raps  you're  feeling  keen  for  a  second  seeing  of  the 
light.  Or  if  you're  not" — here  the  old  man  paused  to 
surrender  the  churchwarden  to  Bowie,  fearing  lest  he 
break  it  in  his  growing  agitation — "if  not,  then  you  have 
just  one  identical  minute  to  explain  what  you  mean, 
suh,  by  coming  here  and  annoying  my  guests.  One 
minute,  suh!  Quic,k,  half  of  it's  up  whilst  I'm  a- talking 
to  you." 

"It's  along  o'  this  here  Drunken  Sam,"  said  Yandell 
hastily,  "meaning  for  to  stir  up  revolutioners." 

"Stop!"  The  command  was  like  a  thunderclap,  and 
startled  us  all.  Sam  Houston  himself  had  taken  a 
hand.  His  face  purpled,  invective  crowded  his  tongue, 
and  in  his  towering  presence  none  might  suspect 
aught  of  the  theatrical.  "Stop  right  where  you  are, 
you  dog,"  he  roared,  "and  prove  your  contemptible 
assertion!" 

Yandell  tried  pitiably  to  sneer. 

"It's  our  milk-livered  papoose  here,"  he  said.  "It's 
him  thet  blabbed.  I  skeered  him  to  it,  skeered  him  so's 
he  thought  I  was  fur  rippin'  his  inerds  out  an'  skelpin' 
him  alive.  An'  what  he  said,  Guv'ner  Houston,  was  this 
here.  He  said  thet  ye 're  a  organiser  o'  rebelly-on. 
Them's  his  very  school-book  words.  Ask  him.  Ur 
mebbe  he'll  be  sayin'  now  'tain't  so,  jus'  mebbe  now." 

I  felt  the  threat  in  that  last.     His  horse  was  almost 


A  REDLANDER  GIRL  57 

tramping  on  me,  and  I  was  again  under  his  hairy 
fist.  But  he  had  oddly  miscalculated.  To  brand 
myself  a  cur  and  informer  in  that  company,  with  those 
eyes  on  me,  Bowie's,  Houston's,  Deaf  Smith's,  and  a 
pair  of  snapping  hazel-black  ones,  this  was  to  require 
infinitely  more  courage  than  braving  a  vague  death 
sentence  from  Lush  Yandell. 

"You — you're  a  liar!" 

I  had  forced  the  words,  though  queerly  enough  they 
sounded  in  my  own  ears,  and  then  I  crouched  involun- 
tarily, fully  expecting  his  knife  between  my  shoulders. 
But  he  laughed.  He  did  not  even  resent  the  insult. 
I  had  made  too  much  of  it,  and  perhaps  it  did  sound 
rather  like  the  petulance  of  a  child. 

"Oh,  oh,"  he  jeered,  "ain't  he  riled  though!  O  wake 
snakes  and  hump,  ain't  he  riled!  But  ye  see,  he  ez  good 
ez  owns  up.' 

"Words,"  grunted  Deaf  Smith,  "jes'  words!" 

That  anchored  the  lie  definitely,  and  I  was  believed, 
Until  then  the  taciturn  old  scout  had  left  me  to  face 
the  test  alone.  He  knew  that  I  needed  the  schooling. 
But  now  I  saw  that  his  pistol  was  levelled  from  his  hip. 
My  life  had  been  safe  enough. 

Sam  Houston,  meantime,  had  fumed  in  lordly  im- 
patience. But  he  was  not  to  be  kept  longer  out  of  the 
limelight. 

"You  dam'  rascal,"  he  burst  forth,  "get  off  that 
horse!  Get  off,  I  say,"  and  Yandell  obeyed.  "Now 
then,  open  that  paper  you  have  there  and  show  what 
authority  it  gives  you  to  make  the  lying  assertion  just 
crammed  down  your  throat.  Not  any,  eh?  Now  by  the 
Eternal,  you  exceeded  your  authority.  Turn  round, 
and  throw  up  your  hands !  Turn  round,  you  whelp ! " 

The  wild  blood  in  the  man  was  up.  His  bellowed 
commands  were  near  an  Indian's  warwhoop.  Yandell, 


58  THE  LONE  STAR 

more  dazed  than  actually  cringing,  started  to  do  as  he 
was  told,  when  Houston  snatched  his  quirt  from  him  and 
brought  it  down  across  his  shoulders.  The  bully  howled 
once,  and  wheeled  round  to  fire.  But  the  lash  caught 
his  pistol,  and  sent  it  spinning  in  the  air.  The  next 
blow 

But  Bowie's  hand  closed  over  the  whip. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  cried  Houston. 

"Why  suh,"  said  Bowie,  his  daredevil  eyes  sparkling, 
"it — it's  Yandell's  quirt,  you  know,  not  yours/' 

Houston's  furious  expression  was  first  poised  in 
amazement.  Then  it  relaxed  little  by  little,  and  then 
broke  suddenly  into  a  great  uproarious  laugh.  After 
all,  our  histrionic  personage  had  that  grace  that  saved 
him.  Though  but  a  grain,  his  sense  of  humour  meant 
the  hope  of  practical  things  under  his  lofty  dignity.  His 
unbridled  indignation  was  spectacular  and  particularly 
satisfying,  yet  you  will  say  it  lacked  the  calm  reserve 
force  of  the  truly  big  man.  Quite  so,  but  I  suspected 
afterward  that  in  the  very  height  of  his  passionate  out- 
break he  was  calculating  its  effect.  The  masterful 
reserve  was  behind,  all  right,  and  a  beautiful  arrange- 
ment it  was  too,  since  he  could  vent  his  hot  Scotch-Irish 
at  the  same  time. 

"Thank  you,  Colonel  Bowie,  thank  you,"  he  roared 
in  his  laughter.  "Mighty  Jove,  perhaps  Mr.  Yandell 
did  not  want  to  lend  me  his  property!  Here,  take  it 
back,  but  don't  forget,  I  can  borrow  one  from  somebody 
else  next  time.  Let  me  beg  you  not  to  forget,  sir." 

"Gawd,"  snarled  the  desperado,  " 'tain't  likely!  An' 
they's  not  one  of  ye  I'll  furget,  nuther.  Oh,  I'll  cut 
yuh  combs,  I'm  etern'ly  skewered  ef  I  don't.  You,  old 
man,"  and  he  turned  on  Buckalew  as  safer  than  the 
terrible  white  Indian  from  Tennessee,  "I'll  be  shet  of 
ye  yit.  An'  you,"  he  turned  on  me  as  the  safest  of  all, 


59 

"you're  the  licked  pup  thet's  allus  licked,  an'  you're 
goin'  to  come  in  useful,  mirac'lous  useful." 

"But  meantime,  Lush,"  Bowie  interposed,  "I  suppose 
you  are  returning  to  San  Antone?" 

Lush   growled   an   affirmative. 

"Good,"  said  Houston,  "for  you  may  advise  his 
lordship  that  Sam  Houston  will  do  himself  the  honour 
to  pay  his  respects.  Sam  Houston  comes  as  the  emissary 
of  the  United  States  of  America,  duly  provided  with  a 
passport  from  the  Secretary  of  War  of  the  same  great 
power.  He  comes  to  induce  certain  Indian  bands  to 
return  to  the  United  States,  and  as  this  involves  a 
treaty  obligation,  his  lordship  will  doubtless  extend  to 
the  emissary  every  aid.  With  which,  sir,  you  have  Sam 
Houston's  permission  to  take  yourself  out  of  his  sight, 
to  his  lordship,  sir,  or  to  the  devil,  sir." 

Yandell  was  sufficiently  adept  by  now  to  feel  the  brew- 
ing of  the  tempest.  Scowling  as  ever,  with  the  per- 
spiration like  beads  of  grease  on  his  hairy  face,  he 
dragged  at  his  horse's  bridle  until  he  gained  the  road, 
and  mounted. 

Then  there  was  a  clear,  bell-like  voice  among  us. 

"Daddy,  here's  another  cobbler,  and — supper's  all 
ready." 


CHAPTER  VI 

SANTA   ANA,    HERO 

TO  DESCRIBE  Old  Man  Buckalew  as  a  compend 
of  Texian  high  jinks  was  not  exaggeration.  At 
supper  that  evening  he  beamed  up  and  down  the  spacious 
board,  and  had  hard  work  remembering  to  be  crusty. 
Even  when  he  did,  the  negroes  coming  and  going  with 
laden  wooden  trenchers  or  pewter  platters  only  grinned 
at  the  fraud  of  it.  As  an  implement  for  punctuating 
remarks  his  churchwarden  was  replaced  by  his  long 
hunting  knife,  which  he  used  for  carving  the  juicily 
browned  'possum  in  front  of  him.  The  dry  fun  in  his 
eyes  was  as  crisp  as  frost,  and  behind  the  shell-rimmed 
specs  the  eyes  might  have  belonged  to  some  mischievous 
gamin  peeking  through  a  knothole  in  a  fence. 

The  old  man — he  wasn't  really  old,  either — revealed 
himself  as  a  sorry  humbug  altogether,  that  evening. 
He  a  crabbed  porcupine?  God  bless  him,  he  was  the 
jolliest  there.  He  had  reason,  too,  for  did  he  not  have 
several  of  his  ancient  cronies  around  him,  right  under  his 
heel,  where  he  could  berate  them  to  as  neat  a  turn  as 
the  bear  steak  itself?  Truly  he  had  them,  as  truly  as  he 
had  had  the  bear,  a  plump,  belated  old  bear  getting  in 
rather  too  late  to  his  winter  home.  Then,  among  his 
guests,  there  was  the  stranger  in  Texas.  There  was 
Sam  Houston,  and  Sam  Houston  was  all  ears.  The 
eminent  stranger,  ready  always  with  his  "  Iliad,"  had 
apostrophised  the  tempting  spread,  but  he  had  invoked 
discourse  too,  "  the  medicine  of  the  mind."  So  naturally 
the  compend  of  Texian  high  jinks  was  having  a  high  old 
time  of  it. 

60 


SANTA  ANA,  HERO  61 

We  heard  a  great  deal  of  General  Long,  for  instance. 
General  Long  went  particularly  well  with  the  flour 
bread,  neither  being  a  usual  institution.  General  Long 
had  hidden  bullets  and  powder  in  a  dry  well  on  that  very 
ranch,  once  when  the  Gachupins — Spaniards — were 
driving  him  back  into  the  Neutral  Ground.  But  General 
Long  had  made  the  Gachupins  sorry  afterwards.  Old 
Man  Buckalew  had  campaigned  with  General  Long.  And 
so,  bless  us,  had  Deaf  Smith.  And  so  had  Bowie.  And  so 
had  one  other,  not  there  present.  The  name  of  him  not 
there  present  was  Ben  Milam.  And  so  we  had  a  great 
deal  of  Ben  Milam  too,  along  with  General  Long  and  hot 
biscuits  and  'possum  gravy. 

The  candles  in  their  tin  sconces  on  the  board  walls 
twinkled  as  merrily  as  stars.  There  was  laughter,  and 
clattering  of  dishes,  and  everybody  eager  to  talk  at  once, 
while  half  of  them  did  talk,  and  there  was  good  cheer  not 
to  be  surpassed.  Yet  as  we  bent  over  our  plates,  or  at 
our  host's  autocratic  ukase  sent  them  back,  either  to 
him  at  one  end,  or  to  Nan  at  the  other,  for  "more  of 
the  same,  with  some  of  those  yams  in  their  own  juice, 
thank  you,"  we  fought  over  again  the  battles  of  early 
Texas,  and  they  were  dark  and  troublous  times,  indeed, 
that  we  passed  through  so  gaily.  For  me  many  a  vague 
idealisation  got  itself  trampled  on  that  night,  and  the 
warm  flesh  of  realism  laid  over  a  phosphorescent  skeleton 
put  that  skeleton  out  of  recognition.  But  if  one's 
notions  are  never  to  be  mussed  up  and  readjusted,  why 
live  longer?  There  would  then  be  nothing  new.  No 
one  wants  his  existence  a  squeezed  lemon. 

Now  and  again  the  eager  light  flamed  in  Houston's 
eyes  as  he  listened,  and  his  massive  chest  would  swell, 
as  though  he  were  bracing  himself  to  huge  endeavour.  I 
began  to  feel  oddly  that  this  chat  in  a  log  cabin  was 
freighted  with  the  issue  of  empire.  There  was  a  gravity 


62  THE  LONE  STAR 

in  the  questions  that  Houston  put.  The  questions  were 
the  groping  of  a  statesman  for  the  whip  hand.  They 
marked  the  tortuous  craft  of  an  astute  Indian  chief. 
Out  of  the  Past  he  was  stalking  the  Future.  The  chaos 
of  events  yet  to  happen  was  slowly  coalescing.  The 
things  I  heard  that  night  were  as  the  bone  and  sinew  of 
every  white  man  and  woman  in  all  the  lone  cabins 
scattered  over  the  quarter  million  square  miles  of  Texas. 
As  bone  and  sinew  they  were  the  Idea,  the  Religion, 
fanatical  with  some,  unsuspected  by  most,  that  pointed 
to  the  quarter  million  square  miles  as  one  day  American, 
American  inevitably. 

One  had  only  to  hear  Nan  Buckalew,  as  she  lifted  her 
chin  from  her  hand,  and  her  thoughts  likewise,  and  said, 
"But  it's  ours!  Didn't  we  buy  it  once?" 

She  meant  our  old  tenuous  claim,  when  Texas  was 
part  of  the  Louisiana  Purchase,  or  said  to  be.  But  we 
had  abandoned  the  contention  when  Spain  ceded  Florida 
to  us. 

"Florida  for  Texas,  oh,  oh!"  Nan's  indignation  was 
good  to  see,  but  such  positive  opinions  in  such  a  little 
girl  made  me  restive. 

The  December  night  blew  cold,  but  the  roaring  that 
awaited  us  in  the  cavernous  fireplace  was  a  young  con- 
flagration. Here  we  gathered  after  the  feast,  and  here 
the  feast  of  soul  went  on,  and  none  the  less  cosily,  either, 
for  one  more  guest,  who  was  hoary  old  Boreas  himself  up 
in  the  chimney.  The  fragrant  tobacco  fumes  must  have 
drawn  him  there,  to  judge  from  the  many  whiffs  he 
snuffed  up  his  gusty  lungs.  Luxurious  rugs  strewed  the 
floor,  and  in  the  deep  fur  of  bear  and  goat  and  buffalo 
we  made  ourselves  snug  around  the  generous  hearth, 
preferring  this  comfort,  many  of  us,  to  the  hide-bottom 
chairs  or  rough  hewn  stools,  and  pledged  ourselves  to 
Texas  in  little  wooden  noggins  of  peach  and  honey. 


SANTA  ANA,  HERO  63 

It  was  then  that  we  hectored  Buckalew,  despite  his 
querulous  oath  to  the  contrary,  into  telling  us  a  certain 
story.  The  story  was  one  that  Bowie  knew  him  to 
have  packed  in  his  memory  about  this  man  Santa  Ana 
who  was  just  then  the  latest  dominant  idol  of  all  the 
Mexicans.  While  yet  at  supper  we  had  seen  General 
Long  and  his  few  hundred  Americans  through  to  the 
end,  to  that  end  when  Long  was  acclaimed  in  the  Mexican 
capital  as  another  Lafayette  and  then  assassinated  by 
the  Mexicans  he  had  helped  to  free.  After  that  we  had 
plodded  along  valorously  into  recent  history,  when 
Mexican  welcome  had  changed  to  attempted  subjuga- 
tion, and  woes  and  wrongs  clouded  the  sun  like  a  locust 
plague.  Thus  we  came  at  last  to  the  latest  dominant 
idol,  who  was  the  hope  of  American  settlers  as  well  as 
of  all  the  Mexicans. 

"Then,"  said  Houston  tentatively,"  this  Santa  Ana 
is  sincere?" 

"  Oh,  don't  look  at  me,"  said  Bowie.  "  Sant'  Ana  stood 
at  my  wedding.  Ask  Buck." 

"And,"  growled  Buckalew,  "he's  a  bigger  humbug 
than — than  an  ole  Ben  Davis  apple." 

"Go  on  now,  go  on,"  prompted  Bowie.  "It's  a  good 
story." 

The  old  man  frowned,  a  genuine  frown,  too;  and 
swore  he  would  never  tell  that  story  again.  And  how  I 
wished  later  that  he  had  not!  But  we  all  insisted. 
Governor  Houston  should  hear  it,  said  Bowie,  to  judge 
for  himself  of  Santa  Ana  as  the  hope  of  Texas.  Bucka- 
lew got  down  his  churchwarden  from  its  sacred  nail  on 
the  wall,  and  settled  himself  by  the  crackling  blaze  of 
logs. 

"This  here  Sant'  Ana,"  he  began,  pointing  each 
deliverance  at  us  with  the  long  clay,  "this  here  Napoleon 
of  the  West,  as  he  calls  himself,  is  the  identical  capstone 


64  THE  LONE  STAR 

of  patriotism,  yes.  Gentlemen,  he  stands  to  his  rack, 
corn  o'  no  corn." 

Buckalew  really  said  "cawn,"  for  he  was  a  Mississip- 
pian,  though  his  native  accent  had  been  considerably 
roughened  by  many  years  in  Texas.  But  I  want  to 
explain  that  just  here  I  am  beginning  to  rebel  against 
changing  the  orthography  of  our  common  language 
merely  to  let  Northerners  know  that  a  Southerner  is 
speaking  it.  Why,  indeed,  should  I  make  Northern 
ears  the  standard?  Or  worse,  why  not  the  Englishman's? 
— and  Lord  knows  his  accent  looks  outlandish  enough 
when  indicated  phonetically!  As  for  us  of  the  South,  I 
never  suspected  that  we  jumped  our  "r's,"  blithely  as 
over  a  gentle  gap,  until  schoolmates  back  East  laughed 
at  my  pronunciation  as  being  so  quaint,  but  when  I 
came  to  notice  the  difference  myself,  I  certainly  was 
glad  of  it.  I  even  like  to  indicate  the  difference 
by  the  written  word,  but  then  only  as  an  occasional 
reminder,  and  in  those  instances  where  the  accent  is 
especially  soft.  Yet  as  for  treating  my  own  speech  so, 
that  is  out  of  the  question,  because  one's  speech,  to  one's 
own  ears,  is  always  exactly  the  criterion. 

"Yes,"  Old  Man  Buckalew  went  on,  "your  Sant' Ana  is 
as  faithful,  gentlemen,  as — as  a  Comanche  treaty.  Hunt 
over  all  teetotal  Hades — yes,  and  even  Mexico — and 
you'll  not  find  another  man  that  can  be  faithful  to  so 
many  diff'rent  contrary-wise  things  in  such  dizzy  quick 
order.  First  off  he  stuck  to  the  Gachupins  like  a  mustard 
plaster  on  a  sore  boil.  Fought  his  own  people,  the 
Mex'cans.  Fought  these  same  liberties  he's  so  ticklish 
about  lately.  Then  look,  sir,"  and  he  pointed  the  long 
clay  at  Houston  as  though  it  were  a  schoolmaster's 
wand,  "how  when  independence  could  be  hit  off  com- 
fortable and  safe  he  flopped  and  nobly  risked  his  life — . 
Here,  Nan,  rouster  up  a  nigguh.  Swear  myself  thunder 


SANTA  ANA,  HERO  65 

black,  one  would  think  the  way  you  keep  spinning  that 
wheel  we  weren't  going  to  have  a  stitch  to  our  backs  by 
morning!  Here  now,  we  want  some  pecans  and  apple- 
jack— Yes  sir,  he  'pronounced'  like  a  bull  for  the 
downtrodden  rights  of  the  people,  fodder  o'  no  fodder. 
I  never  saw  such  a  man.  He's  livelier 'n  limburger  in 
the  dog-days." 

"You  are,  you  mean,"  said  Bowie.  "How  much 
longer  are  you  going  to  twist  round  this  story  like  an  eel 
in  the  frying  pan?" 

The  old  man  peered  up  at  the  chimney  as  the  wind 
roared  a  blast.  "Good  thing  it's  a  dry  one,  this 
norther,"  he  said.  "But  who'd  'ave  thought  at  noon 
that " 

"The  story,  the  story!"  cried  everybody.  "Come 
now,  buckle  to  it!" 

"It  happened,"  said  Bowie,  mildly  but  firmly  giving 
him  his  cue,  "at  the  battle  on  the  Medina,  near  on 
twenty  years  ago " 

"The  time,"  proceeded  the  old  man,  squirming, 
"when  Sant'  Ana  was  first  decorated  for  gallantry. 
Oh  yes,  he's  a  brave  man.  A  reg'lar  canebrake  afire, 
understand?" 

We  thought  we  did.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
irony  in  the  grimace  that  twisted  Buckalew's  shaggy 
moustache. 

"Well,  we'd  as  good  as  bagged  Texas  for  Mex'can 
independence  by  sowing  the  prairie  up  from  the  coast 
with  dead  Gachupins  and  taking  San  Antone.  But  our 
generalissimo,  who  was  a  dam'  Mex'can,  made  out  to 
ship  off  fourteen  of  our  biggest  prisoners  back  to  Spain, 
but  on  the  way  the  guards,  also  Mex'cans,  didn't  admire 
the  colour  of  a  little  forest  brook  where  they  camped, 
and  they  spilt  into  it  all  the  proud  Castilian  blood  they 
had  handy.  Lots  of  the  Americans  quit  when  they 


66  THE  LONE  STAR 

learned  about  this  massacre,  and  others  about  to  come 
down  from  the  States  to  help  us  lick  Spain  changed 
their  minds,  so  that  we  had  only  some  four  hundred 
Americans  left,  besides  something  like  seven  hundred 
Mex'cans.  'Twasn't  no  ways  likely  that  the  Gachupins 
felt  brotherly  about  it,  either,  and  up  come  ten  thousand 
of  them  from  Mexico  like  ten  thousand  wildcats.  But 
the  eleven  hundred  of  us  poured  out  to  meet  them,  and 
meet  'em  we  did,  there  on  the  Medina. 

"We  Americans  sailed  right  slap  bang  into  whatever 
was  in  front,  and  the  Gachupins  give  back  three  miles 
almost  and  broke,  not  bothering  none  about  their 
cannon.  But  our  Mex'can  generalissimo  was  scared 
we'd  wander  round  and  get  lost,  I  reckon,  so  we  were 
brought  back  and  alternated  by  companies  with  the 
Mex'can  companies  in  a  line  of  battle.  Then,  when 
the  main  Gachupin  force  got  to  work  on  us,  the  Mex'cans 
took  wing  and  hoofed  it  rapid,  which  of  coh'se  tangled 
us  Americans  up  in  a  devil  of  a  hobble.  But  we  hung 
on  like  a  crawdad  to  a  pickaninny's  toe,  and  we 
wrecked  the  Royalist  cavalry,  and  the  Royalist  general 
was  getting  real  homesick,  when  a  Mex'can  colonel 
deserted  us  and  told  him  as  how  we  were  near  dead  for 
water  and  weak  as  new-born  calves,  which  was  true 
enough.  Well,  those  wildcats  up  and  come  at  us  hell- 
bent-for-e  lection,  and  they  certainly  clawed  powerful 
brisk.  All  told,  gentlemen,  it's  heaps  more  enjoyable  as 
a  reminiscence.  The  sun  and  dust  burned  like  a  lime- 
kiln, and  our  powder  was  plaguey  well  all  gone,  too. 
Besides,  it  didn't  seem  to  occur  to  the  wildcats  to  take 
nary  a  prisoner,  either." 

"And  if  they  did,"  Bowie  observed,  "there'd  still  be 
the  mines  in  Chihuahua  for  remorse." 

"Which,"  continued  the  old  man,  "I  wasn't  hanker- 
ing after,  and  above  all  on  account  of" — He  stopped, 


SANTA  ANA,  HERO  67 

glanced  toward  the  girl  at  her  wheel,  and  lowered  his 
voice. — "  On  account  of  Nan's  mother.  You  see,  after 
we'd  taken  San  Antone  she'd  followed  me  there,  fol- 
lowed me  from  our  little  one-room  cabin,  which  was 
this  very  room  we  are  in  now.  Nan's  mother,  gentle- 
men, was  another  Jane  Long  for  wanting  to  be  near  her 
husband  on  these  Texian  scrapes.  Fact  is,  those  two 
girls  were  in  the  same  boarding  school  back  in  Natchez, 
where  General  Long  and  I  courted  'em  nigh  about  the 
same  time.  So  there  was  Nan's  mother" — The  gentle 
way  in  which  he  referred  to  his  wife  as  Nan's  mother 
made  it  evident  that  this  described  her  best — ' '  so  there 
she  was,  waiting  for  me  in  San  Antone,  and,"  he  spoke 
lower  yet,  "we  were  expecting  Nan.  The  pore  little  girl 
was  born  two  months  later,  and — and  she  got  just  the  one 
kiss  from  her  mother.  Gentlemen " 

He  faltered,  and  suddenly  doubling  over  his 
moustache,  he  caught  it  fiercely  between  his  teeth. 

"Oh  damn  your  Sant*  Ana!"  he  burst  forth.  "I  say 
it,  damn " 

The  wheel  stopped  short,  and  Nan  hurried  among  us, 
and  drew  a  stool  beside  her  father.  Her  dark  eyes  were 
tender  in  sympathy,  though  she  knew  as  little  reason 
for  his  gust  of  fury  as  we  did. 

"Oh  well,"  he  said,  stroking  her  hair  to  recall  himself. 
"Well,  well,  well,"  and  he  got  boisterously,  defiantly, 
into  his  jovial  tone  again,  "as  I  was  saying,  you'll  allow 
it  was  provocation  enough  along  about  then  for  me 
to  figger  on  running  some.  We  were  on  the  slope  of 
a  hill,  with  the  enemy  below  us.  But  there  were  some 
woods  to  the  right,  so  I  just  streaked  it  down  that  hill 
oblique  to'ards  the  wood.  Running  'most  into  the 
enemy,  I  know,  but  I  hoped  to  flank  'em,  understand? 
I  couldn't  'ave  run  up  hill  that  day,  not  for  the 
Queen  of  Sheby. 


68  THE  LONE  STAR 

"But  there's  no  Baptist  parson,  leastwise  of  my 
acquaintance,  who  would  'ave  had  time  for  a  ser- 
mon before  I  was  in  the  timber  and  pounding  along 
through  mesquite  and  chaparral  like  a  frisky  young 
steamboat,  leaving  murder  and  bushels  of  noise  way 
behind  as  noways  congenial,  not  but  what  there 
were  lots  of  others  mighty  industr'ous  on  the  same 
line  of  strategy. 

"  Half  a  mile  or  so  beyond  I  rounded  off  to  the  bottom 
of  the  ravine,  'lowing  I'd  follow  it  a  bit,  when  there  come 
someone  a-crashing  to'ards  me  down  the  opposite  side, 
and  before  I  could  clamp  on  brakes,  here  was  a  bullet- 
headed,  bilious-coloured  young  Mex'can  plumping  square 
into  my  arms.  A  Mex'can,  yes,  but  he  was  smart  on 
uniform,  all  contraptioned  up  with  sash  and  gilt  braid 
for  a  lieutenant,  and  I  knew  he  belonged  to  the  enemy, 
so  I  whirled  him  spinning  and  looked  round  for  the  rest 
of  the  en'my.  But  there  was  only  him,  and  I  stooped 
for  my  gun  that  I'd  let  drop,  to  run  some  more,  when 
this  here  yellow  Royalist  scrambled  up  to  his  knees 
and  grabbed  my  hand  and  begun  kissing  it.  Ugh,  it 
made  me  sick! 

"The  way  he  blubbered  his  lingo!  Oh,  please  not 
to  shoot  him!  Oh  amigo!  Oh  generous  caballero!  Oh 
wasn't  he  a  mere  boy!  And  he  hated  the  Spanish.  They 
made  him  fight  for  them.  Oh  please  not  to  shoot!  Oh 
please,  and  he  would  change  sides! — Faugh,  he  got  me 
sure  in  the  notion  of  taking  a  blizzard  at  him,  anyhow. 
He  wouldn't  let  go  my  hand,  he  just  mouthed  it.  He'd 
been  running  away  too,  understand?  Thought  his  own 
side  was  licked.  And  if  there  ever  was  a  fawning  cur, 
I  saw  it  in  his  beady  muskrat  eyes. 

"Some  of  the  other  American  fugitives  had  stopped  to 
see  what  the  fun  was,  being  pretty  well  blowed  too, 
and  for  each  new  one  our  prisoner  started  up  again  with 


SANTA  ANA,  HERO  69 

his  'Noble,  generous  caballero,  please  not  to  shoot,'  as 
though  we'd  be  running  if  we'd  a  bullet  left. 

"Then,  quicker'n  you'd  wink,  our  faces  went  blank. 
Vicious  little  pot-shots  everywhere,  red  sashes,  blue 
coats,  those  woods  were  full  in  a  minute  with  Spanish 
tiradores.  Of  coh'se  we  started  to  run  again,  but  what 
does  our  snivelling  cur  do  but  jump  up  in  front  of  us 
and  begin  slashing  at  us  with  his  pretty  sword!  Oppor- 
tunist, eh?  Lord,  I  never  saw  such  a  head-over-heels- 
right-about-face  as  that  there.  Quick  as  a  cat  he'd 
seen  his  mistake,  and  quicker  yet  he  was  just  a-reaping 
glory  out  of  it,  going  the  big  figger  as  brave  as  a  button. 
The  rat  in  his  beady  eyes  was  all  tiger  now,  and  he  was 
savage  as  a  meat-axe.  He  was  yelling,  too,  calling  us 
rebels  and  pirates,  and  pretending  to  himself  he  was  all 
alone,  as  though  he  didn't  know  that  a  generalissimo,  or 
only  the  Grand  Mogul  or  something  in  a  Continental 
cocked  hat,  was  hustling  up  to  help  him  with  about  a 
thousand  men.  He  was  too  taken  up,  understand, 
capturing  twenty  or  thirty  Americans  all  by  himself. 

"So  now  you  know,  gentlemen,"  the  old  man  con- 
cluded, stooping  over  for  a  coal  to  relight  his  pipe,  "how 
the  future  Napoleon  of  the  West  come  to  get  decorated 
for  bravery  at  the  Battle  on  the  Medina.  Can  you 
wonder  that  he's  a  dictator  now?" 

"  But " — "  But " — There  was  a  cloudburst  of  questions. 
"But  how'd  you  get  off?  You  didn't  get  killed,  you 
didn't  go  to  the  mines,  how'd  you  escape?"  And  then 
Bowie: 

"Do  you  know,  Buck,  I  never  have  heard  the  end  to 
that  story.  You  can't  mean  that  Sant'  Ana  saved  your 
life?  How  did  you  get  back  to  Mrs.  Buckalew?" 

"Daddy,"  cried  Nan,  "I  never  heard  even  any  of  it 
before.  And  Colonel  Bowie  just  spoke  of  my — my 
mother.  Was  she  in  it  too?  Oh  daddy,  please!" 


7o  THE  LONE  STAR 

We  heard  something  crack.  Buckalew's  fist  had 
tightened  spasmodically  over  the  long  clay  pipe.  His 
face  was  really  thunder-black  for  once.  He  opened  his 
hand,  and  the  two  halves  of  the  slender  stem  fell  to  the 
floor. 

"Your  Sant'  Ana,"  he  exclaimed,  "see  now  what  he's 
done!" 

Nan  sank  to  her  knees,  and  tenderly  picked  up  the 
bowl  end  of  the  pipe,  which  yet  had  a  few  inches  of  stem. 
But  she  hardly  knew  what  she  did,  for  there  was  awe  on 
her  face.  She  had  never  seen  her  father  so  before.  All 
of  us  felt,  though  without  understanding  why,  that  the 
gentle  old  man  had  been  pilloried  to  make  for  us  a  holi- 
day. Of  course  there  was  nothing  more  said  about  the 
end  of  the  story. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A    SOBERING    OF    AMBITIONS 

WE  WERE  a  tolerable  party  to  camp  in  on  a  man 
but  when  anybody  swore  that  a  few  of  us  at  least 
must  go  on  to  Nacogdoches  for  the  night,  Buckalew 
would  flare  into  a  towering  climax  of  all  that  was  crabbed, 
mortally  offended,  indignant,  and  autocratic;  though 
his  mild  eyes  behind  the  tortoise-shells  were  beaming 
their  very  kindliest.  So  every  one  of  us  had  to  stay 
until  morning,  rolled  up  in  rugs  on  the  floors  of  ells  and 
lean-to's. 

After  a  hearty  breakfast  we  started  for  Nacogdoches. 
Old  Man  Buckalew  and  Nan  went  with  us,  he  as  alcalde 
to  escort  the  distinguished  guest;  and  she,  Heaven  only 
knows!  Likely  enough  she  didn't  know  herself;  took 
it  for  granted  that  she  was  a  man,  too,  I  suppose. 
There  was  something  memorable  about  her  rawhide  boots 
and  spurs,  and  leather  skirt,  and  buckskin  gauntlets, 
and  the  demurely  independent  tilt  of  her  sombrero, 
without  hatpin  or  strings,  and  about  the  poise  of  her 
little  figure  on  the  mustang.  I  can  see  her  yet,  and  most 
of  all,  the  wavy  black  tendrils  with  the  fugitive  glint  of 
bronze  on  the  nut-brown  neck.  I  saw  them  because 
I  was  riding  behind,  meekly  riding  behind. 

"Well,  young  Rip,"  said  Nan's  father,  in  his  hospi- 
table way  falling  back  with  Deaf  Smith  and  myself, 
"well,  and  what  may  you  be  making  out  to  do  in  the 
settlements?  We  just  been  pestering  Governor  Houston 
to  turn  Texian.  About  you,  now?" 

The  question  threw  me  back  on  myself  headlong.     I 

71 


72  THE  LONE  STAR 

had  fostered  a  hazy  notion  of  leading  charges  against  the 
myrmidons  of  some  Mexican  tyrant,  but  I  couldn't 
tell  him  that.  I  couldn't  even  tell  it  to  myself,  not  after 
my  tremendously  heroic  encounter  with  Lush  Yandell 
the  day  before. 

"I  think,"  I  said,  "I— I'd  like  to  be  a  settler." 

With  the  words  I  had  decided.  I  would  bend  my 
falchion  into  a  pruning  hook,  anti-climax  or  not.  Others 
might  spill  the  gore  of  despots,  but  as  for  me,  I  already 
longed  to  be  a  planter.  It  was  grateful  relief,  too.  At 
a  blow  I  had  disarmed  the  Future.  She  could  no  more 
conspire  to  make  me  ridiculous. 

"Good!"  said  Deaf  Smith,  and  that  clinched  my 
resolve. 

"And  be  a  Mexican  citizen,  a  Mexican?" 

The  voice  was  clear,  bell-like.  It  was  Nan's  voice. 
She  had  turned  her  head  half-round,  her  ears  alert  for 
the  answer,  and  her  profile  was  disdain  itself.  She  had 
so  honoured  me,  tentatively,  wickedly,  once  or  twice 
before,  and  I  wished  she  might  have  seen  Rosalie's 
glorifying  attitude,  and  been  rebuked.  At  least,  why 
couldn't  she  let  me  alone?  But  there,  what  did  her 
scoffing  matter,  anyhow? 

Yet  this  idea  of  changing  citizenship  was  one  that 
grated.  Still,  I  wanted  to  be  a  Texan,  so  I  would  be  a 
Mexican  too,  since  that  was  the  way.  Nan,  however, 
had  never  forgiven  her  father  on  the  same  score,  and 
she  hotly  repudiated  the  whole  business.  It  was  her 
father  who  answered  her  now. 

"Not  broke  to  the  halter  yet,  are  you,  you  little  cata- 
mou't?  But  Texas  being  Mexico,  you  can't  get  out  of 
Mexico  unless  you  get  out  of  Texas,  and  that's  just  what 
you're  going  to  do,  missy.  Yes  sir-ee,  as  sure  as  General 
Jackson's  President,  back  you  go  to  school,  back  to 
Natchez,  as  soon's  the  trails  get  good.  Then,"  he  added 


'And  be  a  Mexican  citizen,  a  Mexican?' 


A  SOBERING  OF  AMBITIONS  73 

at  his  Grossest,  though  his  eyes  did  not  look  it,  "maybe 
there'll  be  some  peace  on  the  ranch." 

She  laughed  merrily,  and  touched  a  spur  to  her  mus- 
tang; not  without  a  taunting  glance  over  her  shoulder 
that  made  me  feel  inexplicably  flattened  out. 

Bowie's  servant  Jim  had  gone  on  ahead  the  night 
before,  so  that  when  we  entered  a  beautiful  wooded 
dell  and  came  to  quaint  old  adventurous  Nacogdoches, 
there  was  a  liberty  pole  with  a  flag  at  the  top,  and  drums 
and  fifes,  and  all  the  hardy  Redlanders  as  eager  to  wel- 
come the  grotesquely  eminent  American  whom  Bowie 
presented  as  they  had  been  a  few  months-before  to  help 
Bowie  drive  out  the  Mexican  garrison.  Yet  the  thrifty 
little  town  of  adobes  and  wood  and  a  Spanish  stone 
church  was  as  much  the  home  of  Mexicans  too,  though 
for  that  matter  the  Sabines  and  Creeks  who  loafed  about 
the  streets  or  traded  furs  wore  the  nonchalant  air  of 
leading  citizens. 

There  is  no  need  here  to  dwell  on  the  warmth  of  the 
Redlander  greeting  to  the  superb  barbarian  who  had 
come  among  them.  Nor  on  the  "horns"  that  were 
quaffed,  or  "the  bowls  crowned  to  heaven  and  liberty," 
as  their  guest  solemnly  put  it.  Nor  on  the  sonorous 
address,  as  mighty  as  the  deep  voice  of  thunder,  which 
gave  those  Redlanders  to  know  that  they  had  found  their 
chief — 

"  The  noblest  power  that  might  the  world  control 
.     .     .     a  brave  and  virtuous  soul." 

But  the  orator  frowned  on  open  talk  of  war,  whose  fiery 
spirit  he  himself  aroused.  The  blood  mounted  to  his 
temples  at  the  daring  note,  but  sober  sense  halted  the 
Hotspur  in  him.  At  least,  they  cried,  he  would  return 
to  Texas?  He  would  come  and  represent  them  next 
spring  at  the  meeting  which  was  to  ask  for  a  separate 


74  THE  LONE  STAR 

state  government?  Houston  was  deeply  moved  as  he 
thanked  them.  The  hope  of  redemption  was  in  his 
breast. 

Leaving  the  Redlanders,  and  Nan  and  her  father, 
we  took  the  old  San  Antonio  road,  or  contraband  trace, 
as  it  was  more  aptly  called,  and  began  our  journey 
southwest.  How  long  it  was!  No  one  may  appreciate 
the  enormous  capacity  of  this  region  for  distances  until 
he  has  dogged  a  trail  for  days  and  days  and  days  across 
an  ocean's  space  of  waving  grass.  Then  he  begins  to 
understand,  and  there  is  no  measure  for  the  respect 
that  he  has  for  Texas. 

We  stopped  at  Bradshaw's,  a  settler's,  the  first  night, 
and  next  day  roved  over  the  Mound  Prairie,  where  at 
the  dawn  of  Creation  the  Nassonis  had  also  roved  and 
had  passed  away.  From  the  Trinity  we  headed  more 
southward,  direct  on  San  Felipe  de  Austin.  We  were 
near  the  headwaters  of  the  San  Jacinto  when  a  ghastly 
object  jammed  on  the  end  of  a  sapling  unnerved  us  with 
its  horrid  stench.  The  thing  was  a  human  head,  of 
clotted  hair  and  leaden  flesh,  and  pecked  at  by  crows. 

"Yes  suh,  wolf's  law,"  said  Bowie.  "No  courts,  you 
know.  No  use  to  hunt  thieves  a  week,  and  get  shot  at 
just  to  cowskin  them.  But  they  unduhstand  this  kind 
of  a  notice.  Not  pleasant,  eh,  Governor?  But  you'll 
admit  it's  reasonable  lasting.  Our  friend  Buckalew 
was  a  vigilance  committee  of  one,  once.  Yandell  had 
been  driving  off  his  hogs.  You  noticed  Yandell  seemed 
to  have  a  grudge?  Yes,  well,  Buck  was  in  the  wrong. 
He  ought  to've  spared  the  rod.  We  all  mostly  do  now. 
Then  there's  no  hard  feelings — afterwards." 

I  mention  this,  because  it  has  its  bearing  later. 

We  ate  Christmas  dinner  at  San  Felipe.  San  Felipe 
was  Mr.  Austin's  log-cabin  village ,  a  pretty  little  town 
too,  overlooking  the  Brazos  from  a  prairie  bluff.  San 


A  SOBERING  OF  AMBITIONS  75 

Felipe  was  not  only  headquarters  for  the  colony,  but 
had  come  to  be  regarded  as  the  capital  of  all  the  American 
population  in  Texas.  We  did  not  see  Mr.  Austin,  or 
Colonel  Austin,  to  give  him  his  authorised  Mexican,  title 
as  commander  over  the  militia  he  had  to  raise  among 
the  settlers  against  Indian  raids.  He  was  absent 
at  the  time,  but  colonists  a  hundred  miles  away  rode 
in  to  shake  hands  with  Sam  Houston.  They  were  not 
the  Redlanders,  though.  They  had  no  idea  "of  kicking 
'less  they  were  spurred  again,"  and  they  looked  hope- 
fully to  the  fair-promising  Santa  Ana.  They  were  soil- 
loving  farmers,  and  they  were  Mexican  citizens,  and  if 
Mexico  valued  them,  nothing  was  needed  but  Mexico's 
promises  faithfully  kept. 

I  was  for  throwing  in  my  lot  here,  as  Mr.  Austin 
was  the  first  and  almost  the  only  successful  empresario 
in  Texas,  but  one  morning  during  our  stay,  while  I  was 
reading  The  Constitutional  Advocate  and  Texas  Public 
Advertiser  of  San  Felipe — a  big,  but  deserved  name  for 
a  pioneer  newspaper — Deaf  Smith  began  tapping  an 
ear  with  two  fingers,  and  I  knew  that  he  was  going 
to  say  something  pretty  soon. 

"That's  good  land  over  at  De  Witt's,"  he  announced. 

Deaf  Smith's  generalities  were  the  most  concrete 
things  in  human  speech,  and  I  pondered.  The  land  at 
De  Witt's,  as  well  as  the  opportunities  and  immunity 
from  land  sharks,  could  not  be  more  tempting  than  at 
Austin's,  so  I  decided  that  the  old  scout  must  be  a  kind 
of  alumnus  in  the  pioneer  line  who  was  booming  his 
Alma  Mater.  When  Colonel  Green  De  Witt  of  Rails 
County,  Missouri,  secured  his  grant,  Deaf  Smith  was  one 
of  the  six  or  seven  men  who  blazed  the  trail  and  laid  out 
the  town  for  the  new  colony.  Hence  this  affection 
for  De  Witt's,  though  he  was  too  much  the  wanderer 
to  stay  there  very  long.  But  I  reflected  that  the  matter 


76  THE  LONE  STAR 

went  deeper.  Deaf  Smith  would  see  to  it  that  I  had 
friends  at  De  Witt's.  Thus  a  half-dozen  words  from  an 
old  scout  located  for  me  my  future  Texan  home. 

De  Witt's  marked  the  extreme  western  frontier  of  the 
American  settlements.  The  grant  lay  two-thirds  of 
the  way  from  San  Felipe  to  San  Antonio,  and  our  party 
was  to  go  by  there.  "  But,"  I  objected,  "there's  Article 
Eleven?"  This  was  the  decree,  as  yet  unrepealed  by 
Santa  Ana,  which  excluded  more  Americans  from  settling 
in  Texas.  We  could  have  no  scruples  about  evading 
it,  if  possible,  because  the  Mexican  Colonisation  Law,  a 
solemn  compact  between  the  empresarios  and  the  govern- 
ment, expressly  stated  that  the  invitation  to  foreigners 
could  not  be  withdrawn  until  the  year  1840.  We  were 
then  in  the  year  1832.  Deaf  Smith  did  not  reply  in 
words,  but  the  odd  look  he  gave  me  was  ample  guarantee 
of  title.  Mr.  Austin,  I  learned  afterward,  had  argued 
his  contract  rights  with  the  Government  Commissioner 
to  such  good  effect  that  titles  were  still  granted  in  his 
colony  and  De  Witt's. 

Colonel  De  Witt  had  named  his  town  Gonzales  after 
the  first  governor  of  the  State  of  Coahuila  and  Texas, 
and  Gonzales  we  found  on  the  bank  of  the  Guadalupe, 
its  thirty  or  forty  log  houses  looking  very  much  like  a 
handful  of  brown  dice  strewn  among  the  trees.  Here 
again  the  buckskin-clad  vikings  of  the  prairie  and  their 
women  in  linsey-woolsey  had  gathered  to  see  and  hear 
and  lionise  the  eminent  stranger.  There  was  eloquence 
from  a  stump  in  the  middle  of  the  Square,  beside  an  old 
brass  six-pounder  that  was  invaluable  as  the  imperson- 
ation of  metaphor  and  the  butt  of  gesture.  Uncom- 
plainingly the  old  cannon  had  stood  for  grim-visaged 
war,  for  the  dogs  of  war,  for  the  frown  of  Mars,  for  the 
drum's  tap,  for  the  bugle's  call,  for  the  point  of  the 
bayonet,  for  the  arbitrament  of  the  sword,  for  the  knife 


A  SOBERING  OF  AMBITIONS  77 

to  the  hilt,  for  the  arrows  that  get  carried  along  with 
the  olive  branch,  for  the  hatchet  that  is  dug  up,  for  the 
lance  that  is  broken  with  the  foe,  for  the  powder  that 
is  smelled,  for  the  scabbard  that  is  thrown  away.  It 
had  stood  for  the  mailed  fist,  for  the  tented  field,  for 
the  clans  that  gather,  for  the  blood  that  hands  are 
imbrued  in,  for  the  shackles  that  are  broken,  for  the 
torch  that  is  kindled,  for  the  arms  that  bristle.  It  had 
stood  for  the  moats,  crenellated  battlements,  et  al.  that 
enshrine  the  right,  for  the  corselet  and  buckler  that 
engird  the  same.  It  had  stood  for  hardware  and  archi- 
tecture generally,  for  the  manufacturing  line  and  a  little 
for  the  agricultural  interests.  It  had  stood  for  myth- 
ology, anatomy  and  zoology.  It  had  even  stood  for 
itself,  or  a  part  thereof;  as,  "at  the  cannon's  mouth." 
But  I  think  that  it  had  stood  most  from  Al  Martin. 

Al  Martin  was  dumpy  and  portly,  and  he  was  the 
storekeeper  at  Gonzales.  On  the  stump,  in  wool  shirt 
sleeves  and  a  coonskin  vest,  he  was  making  a  slang- 
wang  speech  as  long  as  the  longitude,  to  borrow  again 
from  Davy  Crockett  where  the  dictionary  begins  to 
totter.  I  was  listening  with  the  crowd  under  the  trees, 
and  growing  a  little  weary,  when  Deaf  Smith  touched 
me  on  the  arm,  and  I  followed  him  away.  But  a  lean- 
faced,  leanly  built,  and  very  determined  little  man  with 
a  wiry  goatee  and  sharp  nose  had  a  hand  on  Deaf  Smith's 
shoulder,  and  was  pushing  him  along.  This  aggressive 
chap  had  given  the  Honourable  Sam  Houston  distinctly 
to  understand  that  he,  Houston,  was  the  most  welcome 
American  that  all  of  De  Witt's,  or  Texas  either,  could 
possibly  wish  to  know,  either  at  that  present  moment, 
or  in  the  aeons  to  come,  sir!  The  wiry  little  man  with 
his  goatee  and  spiked  nose  was  the  alcalde  of  Gonzales, 
Ezekiel  Williams  by  name,  and  it  looked  to  me  consider- 
ably as  though  Deaf  Smith  was  being  taken  to  jail.  I 


78  THE  LONE  STAR 

followed  them  direct  to  the  ayuntamiento,  or  city  hall, 
which  was  the  most  imposing  log  house  on  the  Square, 
furnished  as  to  the  front  room  with  a  rough  table,  a  stool 
to  match,  about  ten  feet  of  a  tree  trunk  hewn  flat  on 
one  side  for  a  bench,  and  a  print  of  General  Jackson. 
Here  Alcalde  Ezekiel  Williams  released  his  prisoner, 
and  ordered  him  to  sit  down.  Then  he  turned  on  me 
with  bird-like  rapidity,  gave  my  hand  an  excruciating 
wrench,  and  made  me  sit  down  too. 

"One  headright  league,  Zeke,"  said  Deaf  Smith,  as 
though  calling  for  liquor. 

"With  or  without?  With,  of  course.  Got  to!" 
Whereupon  Mayor  Zeke  Williams  clapped  his  hands 
for  the  chief  of  police,  and  the  chief,  who  was  a  Mexican 
and  wore  sandals,  presently  appeared  with  a  demijohn. 
Smith  tilted  the  demijohn  over  his  arm  to  his  lips,  he 
being  yet  under  the  frown  of  the  law,  and  I  had  to  do 
the  same,  nor  did  the  upright  mayor  exempt  himself. 

"One  headright,  eh?  Oh,  we  got  plenty  in  stock. 
Al'ays  like  to  show  goods.  One,  you  say?  Wish  I 
could  make  you  take  a  dozen,  or  lock  you  up.  Reckon 
I'll  lock  you  up  anyhow.  Could  keep  you  here  then. 
Who's  it  for?" 

Deaf  Smith  nodded  toward  me. 

"Got  your  passports?  If  not,  lock  you — Oh,  here 
they  are,  eh?  Dam'  sorry,  though." 

Our  snappy  little  mayor,  with  never  a  pause  in  the 
rapid  fire  of  comment,  straddled  one  corner  of  the  table, 
and  fluttered  papers,  and  laboriously  wrote  my  name 
and  origin  into  a  weighty  looking  document.  This 
document  proclaimed  my  steady  habits  and  morality, 
and  declared  that  my  Christianity  "was  accredited," 
meaning  that  I  was  Catholic  Apostolic  Roman,  though 
I  wasn't.  It  was  an  easy-going  voucher  after  all,  and 
cost  me  a  dollar  and  a  half.  Deaf  Smith  signed  it,  and 


A  SOBERING  OF  AMBITIONS  79 

was  going  out  for  the  second  witness  required,  when  a 
big,  handsome  man  entered  and  announced  that  he  must 
shake  hands  with  a  certain  garrulous  old  rascal  yclept 
Deaf  Smith.  The  big  handsome  man  was  Major  James 
Kerr,  who  had  laid  out  this  very  town  of  Gonzales.  He 
had  resigned  from  the  Missouri  legislature  to  come  as 
surveyor  and  acting  empresario  of  De  Witt's  colony. 
He  was  the  first  permanent  settler  west  of  the  Colorado. 
He  had  been  an  early  settler  in  Missouri  too,  going  there 
from  Kentucky,  and  being  associated  with  no  less  a 
celebrity  than  Daniel  Boone.  Major  Kerr's  expression 
was  kind  and  friendly,  and  I  saw  now  why  Deaf  Smith 
had  wanted  me  to  come  to  De  Witt's.  The  big  Ken- 
tuckian  readily  put  his  name  to  my  credentials,  so  that 
there  was  nothing  more  but  to  go  forth  and  pick  out  my 
homestead.  Next  it  would  be  surveyed,  Colonel  De 
Witt  would  approve,  and  the  title  would  be  issued  by 
the  Government  Commissioner.  The  stamped  paper 
for  the  deed  would  cost  a  few  dollars,  and  that  was  all. 
Virtually  for  nothing,  you  observe,  and  I  was  duly 
grateful  already  to  Mexico. 

Bowie  and  his  party  continued  on  west  to  San  Antonio, 
and  I  was  left  behind  at  Gonzales,  quite  content.  My 
first  keen  interest  in  Houston's  visit  had  waned  of  late. 
The  weighty  intrigue  seemed  to  have  petered  out.  I 
had  seen  few  Mexicans,  almost  none  in  uniform,  and  so 
little  did  Mexican  authority  intrude  itself  that  I  had  to 
pause  to  remember  that  I  was  not  on  American  soil. 
What  hopes,  then,  that  Houston  had  placed  in  Texan 
woes  for  rising  again  as  a  leader  of  men  struck  me  now 
as  a  pathetic  dream.  In  San  Antonio  the  high  Mexican 
officials  extended  him  every  courtesy,  and  he  harangued 
the  Comanche  chiefs  and  gave  them  medals.  But  as 
for  inducing  the  runaways  to  return  to  the  United  States, 
he  failed.  This  was  said  to  be  due  to  jealousy  on  the 


8o  THE  LONE  STAR 

part  of  the  Mexicans,  who  dreaded  his  influence  over 
the  savages. 

Houston  returned  to  the  United  States  soon  after. 
On  his  way  back  he  had  a  conference  with  Mr.  Austin 
at  San  Felipe,  and  both  agreed  that  trouble  must  be  kept 
off  as  long  as  possible.  But  Houston  wrote  a  letter  to 
his  friend,  President  Jackson,  that  would  have  made  a 
big  sensation  at  the  time.  He  referred  to  Jackson's 
views  "touching  the  acquisition  of  Texas  by  the  United 
States,"  which,  he  said,  was  desired  by  nineteen- 
twentieths  of  the  settlers.  He  found  that  there  were 
no  laws,  that  the  government  was  despotic  and  dishonest, 
and  that  unless  the  Americans  could  obtain  a  state 
government  of  their  own,  they  would  separate  from  the 
Mexican  federation. 

But  I  meantime  was  blissfully  intrenched  on  my 
headright  league,  and  thinking  myself  past  all  boyish 
notions  of  being  impolite  to  despots;  which  only 
marked  me  as  a  boy  still.  Like  a  fool  pendulum,  I  had 
swung  impulsively  to  the  other  extreme. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE    PASSION    FOR    SPACE 

I  STOOD  on  the  prairie  with  my  nigger  and  my  dog. 
It  was  the  centre  of  the  universe;  and  I,  a  man  of 
acres.  The  land  where  my  shadow  fell,  had  there  been 
a  shadow,  was  my  land.  I  had  come  into  my  inheritance 
as  a  resident  of  the  earth,  for  mine  was  now  a  man's 
share  of  the  earth's  crust. 

But  with  attainment  came  philosophy,  and  as  usual 
in  one's  callow  days,  philosophy  was  another  word  for 
disillusion.  Again  I  began  to  suspect  that  realisation 
hath  not  that  allurement  that  pertaineth  to  distance. 
But  it  may  have  been  the  weather.  A  regular  blue 
norther  was  stabbing  through  my  cloak  to  the  marrow 
in  my  bones.  During  the  morning,  as  I  rode  to  take 
possession  of  my  patch  of  wilderness,  the  January  sun 
had  caressed  with  the  warmth  of  spring,  but  abruptly 
the  sun  had  gone  out  as  realisation  came  in. 

Major  Kerr,  Alcalde  Zeke  Williams,  Storekeeper  Al 
Martin,  and  everybody  else,  had  helped  in  the  choosing 
of  my  headright  league.  But  to  be  a  tiller  of  the  soil 
was  not  enough  for  me.  I  would  also  possess  lowing 
herds,  I,  without  a  bank  account.  A  stock-raiser  was 
allowed  extra  land,  and  he  had  two  years  in  which 
to  show  at  least  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  head  of 
cattle  or  horses.  Hence  my  domain  measured  a  sitio 
complete,  or  more  than  four  thousand  acres.  For  days 
I  had  roamed  up  and  down,  looking  the  world  over  with 
a  lustful  eye  to  decide  what  part  of  it  I  should  make 

81 


82  THE  LONE  STAR 

mine  own.  Major  Kerr  had  suggested  the  alluvial 
country  on  the  Guadalupe  above  Gonzales,  and  when 
I  had  dug  into  it  with  my  hunting  knife,  I  looked  no 
further. 

As  a  great  deal  of  our  planet  is  water,  a  man  should 
have  his  share  of  that  too,  and  here  I  had  the  Guadalupe, 
and  on  its  bank  was  the  very  spot  among  giant  cypresses 
and  live-oaks  for  a  future  galleried  mansion  from  which 
to  watch  the  passing  of  future  steamboats.  Then  east- 
ward from  the  river,  back  of  the  timber,  there  also  was 
my  domain,  the  rolling  prairie  with  islands  of  mesquite 
like  old  apple  orchards.  The  surveyors  had  come  and 
run  the  three  lines  of  the  square  league,  making  the  river 
the  fourth,  and  between  no  point  on  those  lines  and 
the  horizon  did  any  cabin,  or  column  of  smoke,  rise  to 
intercept  the  vision.  With  that  inborn  craving  of  the 
American  pioneer,  stronger  than  the  fear  of  Indian 
massacre,  I  too  had  chosen  far  from  my  neighbours. 
I  was  bred  in  the  cities,  and  had  ever  been  at  elbow 
touch  with  my  fellow  beings,  yet  a  whiff  of  the  free 
prairie  air  had  awakened,  even  in  me,  the  big  passion 
for  Space. 

On  first  coming  to  Texas  I  had  left  my  nigger  and  my 
dog  and  other  belongings  at  Colonel  Bowie's  in  San 
Antonio,  and  he  had  just  forwarded  them  to  me.  It 
was  heartening  to  have  anyone  glad  to  see  me  again, 
and  Yappe  and  L'fitte  certainly  were.  Yappe  was  short 
for  Lagniappe,  and  signified  good  measure.  He  had 
been  given  to  me  by  my  father.  Rather,  we  had  been 
given  to  each  other,  before  either  of  us  could  say  "Thank 
you,  sir,"  and  since  then  that  dear  black  boy  of  mine  had 
followed  me  everywhere,  even  when  I  went  to  school 
back  in  the  Free  States.  It  was  easy  to  bring  a  dog 
into  Texas,  but  a  Negro  was  different.  Mexico  had 
abolished  slavery,  and  slaves  were  called  peons,  which 


THE  PASSION  FOR  SPACE  83 

meant  that  they  represented  no  property  investment, 
and  cost  their  masters  nothing  during  sickness  and  old 
age.  But  slaves  as  a  property  investment  hurt  the 
Mexican  sensibilities  too  much,  so  Yappe  was  informed 
before  we  left  New  Orleans  that  he  was  henceforth  an 
indentured  servant.  He  didn't  know  what  that  was, 
but  rather  than  stay  behind  he  would  have  let  the 
hoodoos  change  him  into  a  fly-by-night  alligator  or 
aught  else.  We  did  not  dare  tell  him,  though,  that  he 
was  free.  He  had  seen  free  niggers  back  East,  and  the 
insult  would  have  broken  his  heart  of  gold. 

So,  with  Yappe  on  his  mouse-coloured  mule,  and  our 
old  pirate  of  a  fox-hound,  L'fitte,  scouting  on  ahead, 
we  had  come  this  day  to  settle  on  our  broad  acres.  But 
the  wind  had  changed,  and  the  norther  had  struck  with 
its  icy  chill,  and  there  we  stood  on  the  prairie,  and 
not  a  roof  in  sight. 

"Yappe,"  said  I,  in  a  baronial  manner,  "you  shall  be 
majordomo." 

I  needed  to  see  him  grin,  and  he  did  grin,  and  there 
was  no  cheer  such  as  that  to  a  forlorn  soul.  "Major- 
domo"  was  a  luscious,  high-stepping  word,  and  he  got 
it  by  heart.  It  had  the  twang  of  title,  the  pageantry 
of  towering  fuzzy  cap  and  brass-knobbed  baton,  and 
rang  enough  like  drum  major  to  be  the  identical  thing. 
But  I  was  every  bit  as  foolish.  For  I  was  reflecting  that 
in  time  this  place  would  be  known  over  the  settlements 
as  "Ripley's,"  and  the  desire  possessed  me  to  anticipate 
the  crystallising  of  custom  by  putting  up  a  sign  some- 
where with  the  letters  on  it. 

"Here,  Yappe,"  I  cried,  "we'd  better  hurry.  They 
only  give  us  a  year  to  mark  our  boundaries  and  put  up 
a  monumento  at  each  corner." 

We  wheeled  at  a  gallop  for  the  nearest  surveyor's 
stake,  and  began  piling  a  monument  of  stones  over  it. 


84  THE  LONE  STAR 

Here  was  exultation  and  warmth  too,  and  twilight 
blackened  to  a  stormy  night  as  we  laboured. 

"Lawd,  Mah's  Harry,  we  gwine  stah've  to  def!" 

Truly,  we  had  forgotten  about  supper.  There  was 
bacon  and  ash-cake  in  our  saddle  bags,  yet  I  begrudged 
even  that  little.  I  wanted  everything  to  be  furnished 
by  my  "estate,"  and  through  my  own  efforts.  The 
good  people  at  Gonzales  were  quite  set  on  coming  out 
for  a  cabin  raising,  but  I  wouldn't  have  it.  I  would 
build  my  home  myself,  nor  would  I  let  my  father  help 
me,  either  with  money  or  more  Negroes.  So  it  appealed 
to  me  as  eminently  consistent  to  miss  a  few  meals  at 
first,  until  we  could  levy  on  the  resources  of  our  wilder- 
ness. No  princelet  ever  knew  the  zest  in  starting  a 
dynasty  that  I  did  in  fastening  upon  my  native  earth; 
even  though,  as  someone  has  said,  it  was  like  taking 
root  in  a  marble  slab. 

However,  when  I  got  a  little  more  hungry,  and  a 
little  more  yet,  I  compromised  by  charging  up  the 
estate  with  the  advance  of  bacon  and  ash-cake,  and 
we  retired  to  the  shelter  of  the  woods.  First  I  taught 
Yappe  what  I  had  learned  recently  about  kindling  a  fire 
in  the  wind  and  rain,  and  the  pine  cones  were  quickly 
roaring,  Indians  or  no  Indians.  My,  how  those  rashers 
of  bacon  did  sizzle  on  the  coals!  And  how  I  wish  to-day 
that  I  could  eat  with  the  same  appetite ! 

Having  made  sure  of  our  supper,  we  fashioned  a  snug 
wickiup  by  drawing  together  the  top  branches  of  some 
young  willows  and  weaving  grasses  into  them.  But 
Yappe,  who  wasn't  toughened  as  yet,  huddled  close  to 
the  fire  all  night  in  a  buffalo  robe.  Often,  though,  the 
shivers  were  too  rampant  for  me  also,  and  I  would  crawl 
out  and  sit  on  a  log,  toasting  my  face,  and  then  my  back, 
and  smoking  a  pipe.  But  once  I  leaped  up  for  quite 
another  reason.  I  had  gotten  sound  asleep,  and  had 


THE  PASSION  FOR  SPACE  85 

rolled  over  luxuriously  in  my  robe,  but  in  doing  so  I  had 
flung  out  a  hand,  and  my  hand  had  fallen  on  something 
that  was  cold,  and  soft,  and  firm.  My  bedfellow  was 
a  long,  sluggish  copperhead  coiled  up  next  me  for 
warmth.  Ugh! 

Chattering  birds  roused  us  next  morning  at  the  bucolic 
hour  of  five,  but  I  thanked  them  for  starting  me  so  early 
on  life  as  a  settler.  For  breakfast  we  had  succulent 
trout  out  of  the  river,  and  tramping  through  the  woods, 
we  gathered  persimmons,  startled  a  mule-eared  rabbit 
into  a  parody  on  greased  lightning,  and  L'fitte  treed  a 
coon,  nor  did  the  coon  escape.  He  went  better  than 
bacon,  too.  The  rest  of  the  day  we  devoted  to  the 
monumentos. 

The  day  following  Yappe  mentioned  coffee,  there  being 
none,  and  we  had  to  confess  that  the  estate  would  not 
grow  coffee.  There  were  other  things  too,  like  sugar 
and  salt  and  tobacco,  and  powder,  and  tools,  and  all 
cruelly  dear  because  of  the  new  Mexican  tariff,  though 
the  government  had  at  first  agreed  to  keep  such  neces- 
sities on  the  free  list  for  a  term  of  years.  To  get  them 
Yappe  and  I  had  to  defer  cabin  building  for  the  present, 
and  we  became  trappers  and  hunters.  We  had  the  skin 
of  the  coon  already  to  begin  on.  It  was  the  nucleus 
of  capital,  and  currency  for  "two  bits,"  since  ready 
money,  as  Crockett  once  observed,  was  "the  shyest  thing 
in  all  natur."  Luckily  we  owned  a  respectable  arsenal; 
double-barrelled  guns  for  a  dozen  buckshot  at  a  hundred 
yards,  the  latest  rifles,  and  pistols  by  the  brace,  horse, 
hand  and  duelling,  and  I  don't  remember  how  many 
bowie  knives.  I  shared  my  room-mate's  books  at  college 
in  order  to  buy  these  things.  To  my  notion,  they  created 
that  which  books  were  made  to  record.  Each  new  pat- 
tern of  deadly  weapon  might  be  the  very  one  to  save 
my  life  and  fulfil  my  destiny,  and  I  simply  had  to 


86  THE  LONE  STAR 

possess  it.  But  I  laughed  happily  at  myself  now.  Des- 
tiny aside,  they  would  do  to  bring  down  furs  for  market. 

The  moose  and  elk  had  already  gone  farther  west, 
and  bear  and  antelope  were  beginning  to  follow,  but  we 
got  one  black  bear,  whose  paws  made  a  feast,  whose 
hams  we  cured,  and  whose  oil  we  saved.  Wolves 
and  foxes  promised  to  stay  with  us  yet  awhile,  and  we 
hoped  to  do  well  by  them  for  the  trouble  they  gave 
us.  Deer  herded  as  common  as  sheep,  and  were 
not  a  bit  more  timid.  Just  before  sunset  they  would 
come  from  the  prairie  to  the  shelter  of  the  woods,  and 
we  had  only  to  hide  near  their  tracks  to  get  all  we  wanted. 
Jerking  meat  alone  kept  us  busy,  but  in  a  little  while 
we  loaded  the  horse  and  mule  with  our  first  consignment 
of  skins,  and  Yappe  set  out  for  Gonzales  with  them. 

He  returned  the  next  evening,  and  then  I  appreciated 
the  blessings  of  a  town  near  at  hand,  for  the  two 
animals  were  laden  with  the  things  we  needed  so  badly. 
But  the  earlier  settlers  did  not  have  Al  Martin's  store 
to  tide  them  over  until  they  raised  their  first  crop.  They 
starved  and  they  froze,  and  game  falling  short,  they 
were  lucky  to  bring  down  a  wild  horse  from  a  passing 
herd.  There  were  the  Indians,  too.  Before  the  tassel- 
ling  of  the  first  corn,  Gonzales  had  been  burned,  and 
the  settlement  almost  wiped  out.  I  clenched  my  jaws 
hard,  because  those  days  were  not  quite  over  yet.  And 
I  began  to  gather  in  the  idea  that  another  price  than 
money  might  be  paid  for  a  home.  Though  Mexico 
acted  never  so  handsomely  to  win  her  settlers,  yet  she 
had  far  and  away  the  best  of  the  bargain. 

"See  here,  Yappe,"  I  demanded  severely,  "who  have 
you  been  robbing?" 

It  has  been  mentioned  already  that  Lagniappe  was 
equivalent  to  good  measure,  and  here  with  our  provisions 
he  had  bought  an  axe,  an  adze,  a  two-handed  saw,  an 


THE  PASSION  FOR  SPACE  87 

auger,  and  a  hammer  and  nails.  My  majordomo 
dubiously  scratched  his  ebon  jaw. 

"Now,  now,  honey,"  he  blustered,  "jes'  you  wait. 
It — it's  de  law." 

"The  law?" 

"  Ye-yeah  sah,  de  law.     Dat  Caddy  Williums,  he " 

"Alcalde  Williams,  you  mean." 

"Yeah  suh.  It's  'count  uv  him.  He  done  load 
'em  on,  an'  he  lock  us  bof  up,  case  we  don'  'cept.  Mister 
Mahtin,  he  say  so  too." 

"It's  a  wonder,  Yappe,  you  didn't  bring  along  a 
steamboat  while  you  were  about  it." 

"I  done  got  a  bo't,"  he  returned  imperturbably.  And 
he  had,  a  dug-out  canoe,  bartered  from  the  Comanches. 
He  had  left  it  at  Gonzales.  There  was  a  barrel  of 
molasses  there  too,  and  another  of  brown  sugar,  which 
my  father  had  sent  me  from  his  refinery  by  a  schooner 
happening  to  touch  at  Port  Lavaca.  This  was  the 
chance  for  letters,  and  Yappe  brought  me  a  packet  of 
them,  the  first  since  I  had  left  home.  All  had  written, 
including  my  baby  brother  Phil,  who  advised  me  con- 
fidentially that  he  was  going  to  run  away  and  come  to 
Texas,  before  all  the  Indians  got  killed  off.  The  longest 
letter  was  from  Rosalie,  with  a  postscript  about  the 
gold  button  from  my  first  colonel's  uniform.  She  took 
it  for  granted  that  I  was  mired  in  glory  already,  and  she 
went  tripping  and  hero-worshipping  from  start  to  finish 
until  I  grew  large  with  importance  and  felt  consoled. 
I  had  written  Rosalie  soon  after  leaving  Nacogdoches. 
I  needed  to,  to  offset  the  exasperating  disdain  of  that 
wild  little  Nan  Buckalew. 

Out  of  the  corn  now  on  hand  we  picked  the  largest 
grains,  on  a  misty  theory  of  my  own  that  they  would 
yield  large  ones,  and  these  we  devoted  to  our  memorable 
first  crop.  There  was  no  plough,  but  after  burning  the 


88  THE  LONE  STAR 

grass  off  of  several  acres  we  punched  holes  in  the  ground 
with  a  stick,  and  in  each  hole  neatly  laid  a  kernel  to  rest. 
And  then  maybe  we  didn't  watch  for  the  tender  green 
of  the  very  first  spear!  Again  I  knew  the  joy  that 
obtains  in  the  commencement  of  things.  Pretty  soon, 
too,  we  managed  to  acquire  a  few  hogs,  and  these,  like 
our  traps,  fattened  for  us  unurged,  and  multiplied  into 
the  bargain.  Their  ambition  in  life  was  acorns  and 
snakes.  My  affection  for  swine  had  always  been  coy 
and  even  dormant,  until  one  day  I  saw  them  throttling 
a  rattler. 

But  you  are  not  to  imagine  that  we  dwelt  in  a  wickiup 
all  this  time.  When  Zeke  Williams  so  defiantly  loaned 
us  the  tools,  we  began  chopping  down  pines  and  sawing 
logs.  A  home  ought  to  be  among  trees  and  overlook 
a  river,  but  I  had  to  forego  such  an  ideal.  Major  Kerr 
insisted  that  we  build  on  the  open  prairie,  and  leave 
slits  between  the  logs  so  as  to  aim  a  rifle  in  any  direction. 
Hostile  Indians  were  a  constant  possibility,  so  you  may 
well  believe  that  the  rearing  of  my  log  cabin  was  attended 
with  emotions.  It  was  like  the  time  I  had  a  boil  lanced, 
and  our  old  doctor  laid  out  his  artery  forceps  in  case  of 
need.  I  had  squirmed,  taking  the  precaution  for  the 
danger  itself,  and  that  was  the  way  with  the  rifle  slits 
for  Indians.  But  I  covered  the  slits  by  decorating  my 
walls  with  coloured  prints,  and  miniatures  of  the 
folks  and  so  kept  the  Constant  Possibility  out  of  the 
physical  eye,  at  least.  And  I  tried,  too,  not  to  expect 
the  sudden  screeching  warwhoop  as  I  lay  on  a  bear  rug 
beside  the  hearth,  and  worked  over  a  Spanish  grammar  by 
the  fat  pine  fire,  or  sneered  at  the  exploits  of  Gil  Bias. 

Spring  gave  signs  early  that  year.  The  most  beauti- 
ful flowers,  and  of  the  brightest  colours,  changed  the 
waving  ocean  of  prairie  into  a  starry  firmament.  How- 
ever, this  is  a  risky  subject,  for  we  Texans  never  know 


THE  PASSION  FOR  SPACE  89 

the  word  "  Halt,"  once  we  get  going  on  it.  Our  toughest 
citizen  that  ever  cut  a  throat  softens  and  mellows  on 
the  prairie  in  spring  time.  But  for  me  the  grass  that 
could  feed  millions  of  buffalo  had  another  message. 
Neither  my  colt,  Boreas,  that  could  certainly  go  like 
the  wind,  nor  Yappe's  mule,  could  ever  eat  so  much,  and 
the  waste  made  me  sick  at  heart.  All  that  grass  might 
be  going  into  the  manufacture  of  beef,  if  only.  .  .  . 

But  one'  day  I  cracked  my  shins  on  an  idea.  Idea? 
The  thing  was  Inspiration.  Yappe  and  I  had  paddled 
up  the  river  toward  the  hills  north  of  us,  and  we  had 
landed  in  the  dense  timber,  hoping  in  this  remote  wood 
to  attain  a  recent  ambition  of  mine,  which  ambition 
was  a  panther.  I  coveted  the  skin,  but  it  was  really  to 
determine  if  I  had  the  grit  to  risk  wounding  the  danger- 
ous beast.  Suddenly  we  held  our  breath.  Branches 
were  crashing.  Twigs  were  snapping.  It  was  like 
seeing  a  ghost  after  telling  ghost  stories.  But  the 
animal  was  not  a  panther.  Through  the  underbrush 
we  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  huge,  black,  horned  beast 
making  off  like  a  streak  of  darkness.  Still  others 
stumbled  to  their  feet  and  joined  the  panic.  They  could 
not  be  buffalo,  not  here  in  the  timber.  No,  but  they 
were  wild  cattle.  La  Salle  had  brought  their  progenitors 
over.  Now  for  my  lowing  herds,  now!  What  idea 
more  unique  than  to  rustle  from  poor  old  La  Salle ! 

But  I  must  have  been  very  young  in  those  days,  and 
quick  for  any  hope,  so  long  as  it  was  one  that  could  not 
be  realised.  As  easy  to  lasso  the  chamois  as  those 
elusive  black  bovines!  We  stalked  them  warily,  pain- 
fully, but  all  to  no  purpose.  At  last  one  caught  his 
horns  for  a  second  in  the  brush,  and  I  got  him  with  a 
lucky  shot. 

"Anyhow,"  I  said  to  Yappe,  "here's  rawhide  for  some 
new  brogans." 


CHAPTER  IX 

FOR   A   DOG 

BUT  inspirations  were  not  done  with  me  yet.  Yappe 
was  serving  lunch  in  the  cabin  one  day  when 
Boreas,  tied  just  outside  the  door,  commenced  whinny- 
ing plaintively,  and  L'fitte  darted  out  and  uttered  pro- 
test. Yappe 's  teeth  chattered.  We  thought  of  Indians. 
But  they  were  not  Indians,  though  they  were  surely 
horse  thieves.  We  saw  them  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  and  their  manes  were  flowing,  and  their  tails 
curving  out,  and  they  were  neighing  seductively  and 
throwing  up  their  heels  to  picture  the  joys  of  freedom, 
and  were  altogether  as  full  of  pranks  and  mischief  as — 
well,  as  the  frolicking  wild  mustangs  that  they  were. 
It  was  a  good  thing  for  us  that  Boreas  appreciated 
the  social  obligations  entailed  by  a  halter,  or  he  would 
have  jumped  at  their  luring  invitation.  I  mounted, 
unslung  a  lasso,  and  darted  for  the  herd.  But  they 
regarded  me  wickedly  for  a  moment,  then  with  a  parting 
kick  of  their  hind  hoofs  went  cavorting  off  across  the 
prairie. 

The  Barbary  sires  of  these  coquettish  little  revellers 
had  come  over  with  the  first  Spaniards,  and  the  provo- 
cation to  turn  rustler  was  again  all  indicated.  But 
this  time  help  was  needed,  so  Yappe  and  L'fitte  and  I 
closed  up  shop  and  started  for  Gonzales.  The  general 
store  conducted  by  the  dumpy  and  portly  Al  Martin 
in  woollen  shirt  sleeves  and  coonskin  vest  was  head- 
quarters for  recruiting  expeditions,  whether  to  chastise 
Indians  or  to  go  out  mustanging.  Here  we  found 

90 


FOR  A  DOG  91 

Captain  Henry  Brown  on  his  way  to  trade  with  the 
Comanches,  and  his  crippled  brother,  Waco  Brown,  so 
nicknamed  because  of  his  captivity  by  the  Waco  tribe. 
The  Browns  were  Kentuckians,  but  they  had  come  to 
Texas  from  Pike  County,  Missouri,  and  it  was  Captain 
Brown  who  had  driven  the  Mexican  garrison  out  of 
Velasco.  Both  were  willing  enough  to  acquire  a  cabal- 
lada  of  mustangs,  which  they  could  swap  up  and  down 
the  Guadalupe,  and  they  circled  around  busily  that 
evening  to  make  up  the  rest  of  our  party. 

Another  who  had  taken  part  in  the  Velasco  battle, 
who  had  been  wounded  there  too,  was  Valentine  Bennet. 
His  headlight  was  on  the  river  near  mine,  and  we  secured 
him  for  the  hunt,  besides  four  others  of  the  colony, 
George  Cottle,  Old  Paint  Caldwell,  Dan  McCoy,  and  the 
deputy  surveyor,  Byrd  Lockhart.  Sill  Leon  also  joined 
us.  I  should  say,  Don  Silvestre  de  Leon,  who  was  the 
son  of  Don  Martin,  the  founder  of  De  Leon's  colony  to 
the  south  of  us.  Then  there  was  Sill's  brother-in-law, 
and  a  splendid  fellow  too,  Captain  Pldcido  Benavides. 
We  had  come  to  look  on  them  both  as  our  kind  of  people, 
and  we  were  glad  to  have  them  along. 

And  last,  though  first  too,  was  grisly  old  Jack  Castle- 
man,  who  happened  to  be  in  town  for  powder.  Castle- 
man  was  not  an  amiable  person.  His  craggy  brows 
doubled  on  each  other  in  a  scowl  when  I  first  met  him. 
"  'Nuther  new  un,  eh?"  he  growled  mournfully.  "Blast 
my  shoes,  hit  air  a-gittin'  crowded  here,  gittin'  'most 
ez  thick  'twas  back  in  Miz'ouri."  Castleman  was  back- 
woodsman to  the  core.  He  had  gone  to  Missouri 
because  the  Kentucky  mountains  were  crowded,  and 
since  then  the  frontier  had  been  shoving  him  farther 
off  all  the  time.  At  present  he  lived  with  his  family 
twenty  miles  west  of  me  or  anybody  else,  just  where 
the  Indians  raiding  eastward  up  over  the  edge  of  the 


92  THE  LONE  STAR 

world  would  stumble  on  him  first.  But  he  enjoyed 
fighting  them  so  well  that  they  usually  traced  their 
warpaths  a  comfortable  galloping  range  to  one  side  of 
his  cabin. 

"Hi  thar,  furriner,"  he  said  to  me,  as  we  talked  over 
arrangements  that  night  in  Martin's  back  room,  "I 
jedge  we  kin  figger  on  you  fer  totin'  the  bellus? " 

Jack  Castleman's  mouth  was  always  screwed  down 
at  either  corner,  and  even  when  he  spoke,  his  lips 
preserved  the  same  sour  arch.  His  was  the  countenance 
of  the  hopeless  misanthrope,  and  had  apparently  set 
that  way  in  the  putty  stage,  to  harden  beyond  the  recall 
of  a  smile  or  cheerful  thought.  But  I  did  not  know 
him  yet. 

"Bellows?"  I  repeated,  innocent  and  eager  as  a  lamb. 
"Whats  the  need  of  a  bellows?" 

The  tightly  glued  lips  parted  as  though  touched  by 
acid. 

"Because,"  he  said,  glowering  terribly,  "when  we 
cotch  them  mustangs  to-morrer,  they  'ull  be  plum' 
winded,  an'  ef  they  don'  git  air  pumped  inter  them 

But  what's  the  use  ?  The  dry  mud  fell  from  the  chinks 
during  the  storm  of  laughter  in  Martin's  back  room. 
Yet  the  humourist's  set  lips  might  have  distilled  vinegar. 
Those  lips  never  once  relaxed.  I  almost  decided  that 
I  was  not  going  to  like  Jack  Castleman. 

All  of  these  men  had  earned  degrees  from  the  big 
university  of  the  frontier.  They  knew  the  learning  of 
the  wilderness.  They  could  soften  deer  hide  for  a  shirt. 
They  could  kindle  a  smokeless  fire.  They  could  keep 
their  scalps  on  their  heads.  Of  course,  mustanging  had 
a  notable  place  in  the  curriculum,  and  Yappe  and  I 
meekly  tagged  along  with  so  distinguished  a  faculty. 
They  asked  which  way  the  herd  had  gone,  and  that 
was  enough,  since  wild  horses  never  wander  very  far  off 


FOR  A  DOG  93 

their  range.  The  first  day  out  we  beheld  their  stream- 
ing tails.  A  beautiful  stallion  led,  and  behind  him  the 
herd  clattered  like  a  troop  of  cavalry,  and  quickly  trotted 
over  the  sky  line.  But  instead  of  following,  we  stopped 
at  the  first  motte  and  began  chopping  timber  for  a  corral. 
If  that  frisky  herd  was  to  be  persuaded  into  that  corral 
— well,  my  own  sense  of  humour  unlimbered  for  action, 
though  rather  doubtfully,  perhaps. 

"I  reckon,  sonny,"  said  Jack  Castleman,  "ez  me  an' 
you  kin  jes'  mosey  along  for  the  openin'  lap." 

So  the  old  misanthrope  and  I  initiated  the  chase,  if 
a  leisurely  promenade  trot  can  be  called  that.  We  saw 
the  herd  again  toward  evening,  but  off  on  the  right. 
You  see,  their  range  seldom  had  a  radius  of  more  than 
twenty  miles,  and  they  were  circling  on  us. 

"Pore  pestered  critturs,"  said  Castleman,  "we'ull 
jes'  let  'em  graze  aroun'  some,"  and  to  my  surprise  he 
dismounted,  laid  out  coffee,  a  water  gourd,  and  a  kettle, 
and  began  preparing  supper.  I  was  wary  after  the 
bellows  episode,  and  half  suspected  that  the  real  business 
of  mustanging  was  going  on  elsewhere.  Yet  I  asked 
no  questions,  though  the  backwoodsman  soured  visibly 
at  my  lack  of  curiosity,  and  when  he  rolled  himself  up 
to  sleep,  I  did  the  same.  But  he  got  up  now  and  then 
to  feed  the  fire,  which  also  was  strange.  The  blaze, 
however,  directed  two  horsemen  our  way,  who  roused 
me  out  of  my  dreams  in  a  horror  of  being  trampled  to 
death.  They  were  Captain  Placido  and  Sill  Leon. 
They  hobbled  their  tired  horses  and  saddled  mine  and 
Castleman's. 

"Cut  straight  to  yo'  right,"  Castleman  grumbled  at 
them  sleepily  from  his  blanket.  "They're  thar." 

By  sunrise  we  were  up,  and  cutting  in  the  same 
direction.  A  column  of  smoke  led  us  about  noon  to 
where  Pla'cido  and  Leon  had  made  camp.  They  had 


94  THE  LONE  STAR 

kept  on,  they  told  us,  until  they  almost  ran  into  the 
sleeping  herd;  and  after  stampeding  the  dazed  animals, 
had  stopped  to  rest  and  wait  for  us.  We  four  now 
proceeded  together,  and  in  a  little  while  came  again 
upon  the  herd.  They  were  taking  the  repose  that  they 
were  beginning  to  need  more  and  more,  but  we  merci- 
lessly drove  them  out  of  that,  and  chased  them  till 
nightfall.  We  were  cooking  supper  when  the  two  Browns 
passed  us,  and  continued  the  chase  in  the  direction  we 
indicated.  The  corral  was  completed,  they  said,  and 
the  rest  of  the  party  was  following  close  by  relays.  And 
so  it  happened,  for  at  breakfast  Val  Bennet  and  Old 
Paint  Caldwell  came  up  to  occupy  our  camp,  after  riding 
all  night,  while  we  four  started  out  again  in  our  turn  to 
overtake  the  Browns. 

From  now  on  the  relays  were  short  and  swift,  and  the 
ever  wearying  herd,  like  so  many  wandering  Jews,  were 
not  given  a  minute  for  rest.  They  no  longer  switched 
their  tails  so  jauntily,  or  kicked  up  their  heels  at  us. 
When  Castleman  and  the  two  Mexicans  and  myself  next 
passed  on  to  the  lead,  there  was  a  jaded  mother  and 
colt  that  had  straggled.  We  lassoed  them  easily,  necked 
the  mare  with  one  of  our  own  horses,  and  drove  them 
to  the  corral. 

After  that  others  began  to  drop  out  of  the  herd,  and 
our  party,  being  now  all  together,  were  kept  busy  gather- 
ing them  in.  At  last  the  stallion  leader  himself  could 
go  no  farther.  Castleman  dismounted,  walked  into  the 
herd,  twined  his  fingers  in  the  stallion's  mane,  and  led 
him  away  as  meek  as  an  old  family  buggy  horse.  Cap- 
tivity was  a  grateful  thing  now,  if  it  only  meant  rest 
and  sleep;  which  it  did — in  the  corral.  Thus  we  rustled 
from  the  Conquistadores. 

The  old  fellows,  who  were  too  vicious  to  be  broken,  we 
gave  back  to  the  prairie,  but  even  so  we  had  nearly 


FOR  A  DOG  95 

eighty  to  divide,  not  counting  eight  asses  and  mules, 
and  little  beauties  they  all  were.  We  came  out  of 
it  with  six  or  seven  animals  each,  and  Yappe  was  voted 
two  colts  as  majordomo  of  the  corral.  Yappe  remained 
behind  in  Gonzales  with  our  share,  and  I  went  on  home 
alone  to  improvise  some  sort  of  a  pen  for  them.  "Home," 
I  believe  I  said.  Well,  it  seemed  so  to  me  now.  We  do 
not  really  call  a  new  location  home  until  we  get  away 
from  it  once;  and  then,  as  a  place  to  return  to,  whether 
a  cave  or  castellated  palace,  it  wears  its  name  with 
familiarity  at  last.  L'fitte  coursed  on  ahead  like  a  hom- 
ing pigeon,  and  turning  out  of  the  forest  trail,  I 
struck  up  a  livelier  gait  across  the  prairie  toward  my 
cabin. 

But  as  I  drew  near,  I  perceived  that  the  door  was  wide 
open,  and  that  a  man,  lazily  smoking  a  pipe,  lay  half 
sprawling  against  the  jamb.  "A  passing  stranger,"  I 
thought  hospitably,  or  tried  to  think  hospitably,  but 
there  was  an  insolent  air  of  having  taken  possession 
about  the  man  that  got  me  on  edge.  I  dismounted, 
whistled  L'fitte  to  heel,  flung  my  shotgun  across  my 
arm — I  had  been  shooting  quail  on  the  way — and 
approached  in  foreboding  to  welcome  my  guest.  I 
think  I  knew  him  first  by  the  odour  of  his  pipe.  He 
looked  up,  noticing  me  casually. 

"  W'y,"  he  drawled,  in  the  patronising  way  that  always 
enraged  me,  "our  little  compadre,  ef  'tain't!"  But  he 
gave  no  sign  of  moving;  only  cocked  his  hairy,  mis- 
shapen head,  and  leered  at  me  genially. 

"Howdy,  Yandell,"  I  said,  more  to  try  my  uncertain 
voice  than  anything  else.  Then  there  was  L'fitte  at 
my  heels,  growling  low,  and  all  a-bristle. 

"Middlin',"  he  returned,  still  without  offering  to 
let  me  in  my  own  house. 

"What — what  do  you  want?" 


96  THE  LONE  STAR 

"W'y,  nothin',"  he  said,  feigning  surprise  at  the 
question.  "Why?" 

"Because,  Yandell,  if  you're  thinking  of  staying  over- 
night, as  you're  welcome  to  do,  I'd  like  to  get  in  to  cook 
up  something." 

"Now,"  he  drawled  wickedly,  "I  take  thet  ez  oncom- 
mon  kind  of  ye,  little  compadre.  But  they 's  a  pig  in  there 
I  jus'  roasted,  an'  when  that  un's  et,  they's  a  few  more 
left  round  here.  But  mebbe  you're  thinkin'  for  to  stop 
over-night?  Mebbe,  now?" 

The  lump  in  my  throat  burned  like  a  hot  coal.  A 
few  pigs  left?  Left  from  the  precious  nucleus  of  my 
stock  ranch!  And  maybe  I  was  thinking  of  staying 
over-night,  in  my  own  cabin?  Yandell's  meaning  was 
clear.  He  had  jumped  my  headright,  that  was  it.  A 
dreadful  misgiving  seized  me,  for  I  had  not  gotten  my 
title  yet.  I  had  applied  for  it,  indeed,  but  of  late  the 
Mexican  Government  had  sent  no  commissioners  through 
the  colonies  to  give  titles;  had  purposely  sent  none, 
as  I  afterward  learned.  So  here  I  was,  rudely  jerked 
to  the  realisation  that  we  were  under  a  Mexican  Govern- 
ment after  all.  It  was  notorious  that  Mexicans  were 
favoured  in  land  allotments,  and  Yandell  counted  as  a 
Mexican.  But  to  get  the  worst  over  with,  I  asked  him 
if  he  didn't  know  that  he  was  on  my  property. 

"W'y  no,  cain't  say  ez  I  do,  compadrecito.  Me  an' 
some  friends  hev  bought  this  here  strip  among  others 
frurn  the  legislatur  o'  the  State  of  Coahuila  and  Texas, 
an'  all  fur  a  cent  an'  a  quarter  per  acre.  Like  to  buy  it 
back,  mebbe,  at  a  dollar?  Yuh  pa  now,  mebbe  he'll  lend 
ye " 

"No,  he  won't,"  I  cried,  "for  I'll  not  ask  him." 

"  In  which  case,"  said  Yandell,  stretching  his  arms  and 
yawning,  "ye  may  ez  well  cut  dirt.  Run  along,  sabe?" 

"I  won't!     I  won't!" 


FOR  A  DOG  97 

My  protest  must  have  sounded  like  a  raucous  chal- 
lenge, or  more  likely,  a  heart-broken  cry  of  distress. 
But  at  any  rate,  good  old  L'fitte  darted  from  behind  me 
straight  at  the  invader.  The  dog  shamed  me,  immeasur- 
ably. Though  but  a  dog,  he  had  the  instinct  of  home 
more  than  I.  He  was  the  readier  to  defend  it.  His 
fangs  gleaming,  his  ears  back,  he  crouched  to  spring 
at  the  man's  throat.  Yandell  laughed,  and  drew  his 
pistol.  He  was  leisurely  aiming  the  pistol  at  my  dog's 
head. 

"Don't  you  dare!"  I  screamed.  And  before  I  knew 
it,  my  gun  was  at  my  shoulder,  and  I  had  filled  Lush 
Yandell  with  bird  shot. 


CHAPTER  X 

NEMESIS    PRESERVED 

AT  FIRST  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  go  near  him. 
I  dreaded  to  see  the  blood.  It  bewildered  me 
to  find  how  easy  one  could  shoot  a  man.  But  to  look 
on  him  afterward!  What  horrid  pulp  awaited  me 
there  ?  What  unsightly  mutilation  of  flesh  done  by  my 
own  hand?  And  it  was  too  late,  the  act  could  not  be 
undone.  But  the  passion  to  make  him  understand  that 
I  had  not  meant  to  go  so  far  was  a  sudden  mad  thing  in 
the  brain.  But,  of  course,  he  would  never  forgive. 
This  was  different  from  stepping  on  a  man's  toe  in  a 
crowd.  Yet  I  could  not  adjust  my  world  to  the  graver 
wrong.  There  was  dazed  agony,  too,  in  the  faltering 
realisation  that  I  had  done  that  wrong. 

But  L'fitte  again  decided  matters.  As  Yandell 
staggered  up,  L'fitte  leaped  and  bore  him  down  across 
the  doorway.  I  rushed  in  then,  and  pried  the  hound's 
jaws  from  his  throat.  The  fangs  were  dripping,  and 
tangled  in  shredded  beard.  And  then  in  Yandell  I 
had  a  raging  Berserker  on  my  hands.  Snarling,  snap- 
ping like  a  mad  beast,  he  clutched  at  my  neck,  but  I 
straddled  him  on  the  floor,  pinioned  his  wrists  under 
either  hand,  and  put  all  my  weight  and  strength  and 
fear  of  death  into  holding  him  there.  His  huge  body 
lifted  from  the  floor,  lifting  me  with  it.  I  had  almost 
called  to  L'fitte,  but  with  the  effort  he  collapsed.  His 
chin  went  back  limp,  and  he  whined,  whined  in  pain. 
I  had  to  bear  low  to  hold  him,  and  my  face  was  close 
to  his.  The  odour  of  his  sweat  and  the  fumes  of  his 

98 


NEMESIS  PRESERVED  99 

breath  were  in  my  nostrils,  and  his  lacerated  neck  under 
the  clotted  beard  was  all  bluish,  like  tainted  beef.  I 
Was  turning  sick. 

"Oh  Lordy,"  I  thought,  "now  I  know  I'm  in  Texas! " 

For  of  such  skulking  rarities  as  this  Lush  Yandell 
was  the  fame  of  Texas  abroad. 

"L'fitte,"  I  called  faintly.  The  dog  came,  fawning, 
twisting  his  body  apologetically.  "Lie  down  there!" 
and  I  pointed  to  the  floor  at  Yandell's  head.  L'fitte 
obeyed.  He  understood.  So  did  Yandell.  If  Yandell 
moved  now,  the  result  would  be  his  own  fault,  for  I  was 
too  unstrung  to  take  chances.  With  the  man's  whining 
in  my  ears,  I  got  up  dizzily,  grabbed  a  halter  from  a 
nail,  and  bound  his  arms  together.  Next  I  lighted  a 
candle,  and  with  hands  all  a-tremble,  bathed  his  throat, 
his  frothing  mouth,  and  the  little  pin-head  bleeding 
places  on  his  chest  and  face.  Then  by  the  candle's 
ghastly  flickering  I  saw  what  I  had  not  seen  before.  One 
eyeball  was  formless,  viscid.  It  was  slowly  running 
out  of  its  socket,  mixed  with  blood. 

God,  I  could  have  prayed  to  the  fellow  then!  It 
seemed  I  must  have  his  pardon,  or  never  know  rest 
again.  But  there  returned  the  dazed  sense  that  to  ask 
pardon  for  such  a  wrong  was  grotesque,  preposterous, 
silly.  In  hobgoblin  terror  I  dropped  a  cool  wet  cloth 
over  the  place,  and  bandaged  his  head.  But  I  had 
seen  it  already,  and  bandages  would  never  avail. 
With  that  a  mortal  fear  began  to  grow  in  me.  Hence- 
forth I  should  be  a  hunted  man,  hunted  by  this  brute 
creature.  He  would  regard  my  life  as  belonging  to  him, 
to  take  as  he  chose;  in  the  dark,  perhaps,  from  behind, 
with  his  knife. 

I  got  him  on  my  bed,  and  watched  him  all  night, 
giving  him  what  comfort  I  could,  and  knowing  that  I 
succeeded  when  his  groans  swelled  to  vile  curses. 


ioo  THE  LONE  STAR 

But  my  vigil  did  not  end  with  the  dawn.  I  had 
the  next  day,  the  next  night,  and  yet  another  day 
of  it.  Then  at  last  Yappe  arrived  toward  dusk  with 
our  wild  mustangs.  There  was  no  pen  for  them,  but  Al 
Martin  had  sent  along  three  Mexican  peons  to  help  Yappe 
bring  them,  and  I  hired  the  Mexicans  to  stay  and  build 
the  corral.  We  hobbled  the  mustangs  securely,  and 
Yappe  took  my  place  beside  the  wounded  man  while 
I  should  go  to  Gonzales  for  a  doctor. 

But  luckily  I  did  not  have  to  go  that  far.  Val  Bennet's 
place  was  about  half  way,  and  as  I  drew  near  there 
toward  midnight,  I  saw  that  his  cabin  was  ablaze  with 
candle  lights,  and  heard  fiddles  and  the  shuffling  of  feet. 
I  remembered.  Val  was  having  an  infair  for  a  bride 
and  groom  of  the  settlement.  They  had  invited  me, 
too,  but  Yandell  had  knocked  such  things  as  country 
frolics  entirely  out  of  my  head.  But  perhaps  the  doc- 
tor was-  there,  and  I  reined  in  at  the  open  door, 
where  the  light  streamed  out  over  me.  The  room  was 
filled  with  beaming  faces,  heads  bobbing  merrily,  and 
whirling  forms  "coming  down  the  centre"  or  swinging 
partners.  "Sir  Roger  deCoverley"  twanged  resolutely 
over  the  din  of  feet,  and  in  a  room  beyond  there  was 
gay  laughter  and  toasts  to  the  bride.  But  Al  Martin, 
in  stock  and  frock  coat  now,  who  was  shouting  off  the 
figures,  saw  my  face  in  the  full  glare.  "Grand  right" — 
and  there  he  broke  off  short,  getting  down  from  the  stool 
on  which  he  was  mounted.  Others  looked  around,  and 
saw  me  too.  A  word  passed  from  lip  to  lip.  The 
whirling,  the  laughter,  the  fiddles,  all  died  away  to 
hurried  whispers.  Rosy-cheeked  girls  turned  pale,  and 
men  began  to  pick  out  their  rifles  from  where  they  were 
stacked  in  the  corner. 

" Indians  1"  I  heard  the  word  now.  "Where?" 
Everybody  was  crowding  around  me. 


NEMESIS  PRESERVED  101 

"No,  no,"  I  shouted.     "It's  not  Indians.     But " 

"Then  what's  ailin'  ye?" — "But  your  face,  man, 
you're  white  as  a  ghost!" — "And  your  hawse  abustin' 
his  bilers  to  git  here!" 

"No,  no!"  I  cried  again.     "I  want  Doctor  Miller." 

Then  from  the  throng  rose  a  familiar  voice,  which 
had  the  timbre  of  laughter  in  it,  and  stroked  the  "r's" 
caressingly. 

"Well,  well,  Harry  Ripley!  My,  you  ceht'nly  have 
been  toughening  up  and  growing  some." 

"Colonel  Bowie!"  I  cried  joyfully,  as  I  recognised 
his  lean  and  comely  features.  The  Bowie  of  cool 
cucumber  blood,  here  was  my  man  of  men  for 
emergencies. 

"Now  Harry,"  said  he,  "get  off  your  horse,  and  tell 
us  all  about  it." 

I  did  not  get  off,  but  they  soon  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened to  Lush  Yandell. 

"Lock  him  up!"  snapped  Zeke  Williams,  jerking  at 
his  wiry  whisker. 

But  the  others  were  muttering  things  quite  different, 
and  strange  things,  too,  which  I  did  not  understand. 

"You  say,"  demanded  Val  Bennet,  "that  he'd  bought 
your  land?" 

"Bought  it  from  the  legislature?"  demanded  Major 
Kerr. 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  said,  but  they  started  to  talking  again 
among  themselves.  They  were  all  feverishly  concerned. 
There  was  a  dangerous  undercurrent  here,  and  I  felt  it, 
still  without  comprehending. 

"Now  it  seems  to  me,  gentlemen,"  said  Major  Kerr  in 
his  mellowest  tone,  "that  our  friend  Rip  is  rather  dis- 
posed to  resent  legislative  interference." 

"With  birdshot,  fer  instance,"  added  Jack  Castleman 
contemptuously,  "But,  p'raps,  sonny,"  he  growled, 


io2  THE  LONE  STAR 

"ye'll  not  be  so  sot  on  quail  arter  this,  an'  keep  one 
bar'l  ready  fer  skunks." 

"I  reckon,  gentlemen,"  said  Bowie,  "that  you'd 
bettuh  send  Harry  along  with  me.  He'd  be  a  delegate 
and  a  grievance  rolled  into  one." 

"Just  what  I  was  going  to  add,"  said  Major  Kerr. 

"The  very  thing!"  cried  Val  Bennet. 

But  this  was  all  mystery  to  me,  or  politics,  and  I  had 
no  time  for  it. 

"Look  here,"  I  interrupted,  "I  want  the  doctor,  I 
tell  you.  The  man's  suffering." 

"And  also  tied?"  asked  Bennet. 

"Because,"  said  Old  Paint  Caldwell  in  his  plaintive 
Tennessee,  "we'd  be  real  grieved  ef  Yandell  couldn't 
wait  fer  us." 

"But  you  needn't  come,"  said  I  uneasily.  "Doctor 
Miller  will  be  enough." 

"Oh,  Doc  'ull  be  happy  to  come  along.  Hey,  Jim, 
won't  you?" 

I  looked  to  where  Old  Paint  called,  and  saw  our 
colony's  doctor  saddling  his  horse.  But  other  horses 
were  being  saddled.  I  was  almost  alone. 

"Colonel,"  I  cried,  "what — what  are  they  going  to  do?" 

"Don't  know,  Harry,"  Bowie  replied,  "unless  they're 
put  out  about  that  birdshot.  They  hate  to  think  of 
poor  Yandell  suffering  so." 

Then  their  strange  mutterings  turned  transparent, 
and  all  at  once  I  saw — I  saw  a  gruesome  human  head 
thrust  on  a  stake  by  the  roadside. 

"Oh  what,  what  can  I  do?"  I  moaned. 

"There,  Harry,"  said  Bowie,  putting  his  hand  on 
my  knee,  "you'll  stay  here.  It's  out  of  your  hands, 
boy.  It's  all  Texas,  now.  All  Texas  is  going  to  resent 
legislative  interference,  and  we're  beginning  to-night, 
on  Yandell." 


NEMESIS  PRESERVED  103 

"They  mustn't!    They  mustn't.     It's  my  house  he's 


m- 


"Now  look  here,  Harry,"  and  his  mild  tone  was  the 
least  bit  severe,  "don't  you  unduhstand  that  they'll 
really  be  saving  your  life  too  ?  You  know  yourself  how 
Yandell  holds  a  grudge." 

Inside  the  cabin  I  saw  men  ramming  home  charges 
in  their  rifles. 

"They  mustn't!"  I  cried  desperately,  and  with  that 
I  kicked  back  with  both  spurs,  and  my  horse  leaped 
forward.  But  Bowie  caught  the  bridle,  caught  the  horse 
around  the  neck,  and  held  us  firm. 

"You  can't  do  it,  Harry."  His  tone  was  kind,  and  I 
almost  thought  there  was  a  puzzled  deference  in  it. 
"You  can't,  boy.  They'll  beat  you  there.  This  horse 
is  plum'  tired  out." 

"  Lend  me  yours,  then." 

"No,  Til  not  meddle.  This  isn't  my  bailiwick,  you 
know.  See  here,  you  couldn't  stand  the  race,  anyhow. 
You're  worse  played  out  than  your  horse." 

No  doubt.    It  was  the  third  night  I  had  not  slept. 

But  the  first  of  the  lynchers  was  mounting.  Really 
not  knowing  what  I  did,  except  that  he  must  be  stopped, 
I  jerked  out  my  pistols.  Instantly  Bowie  snatched 
them  away. 

"  None  of  that,  suh! "  Then  he  laughed  good  naturedly. 
"Why,  you  wouldn't  hurt  poor  Zeke  Williams,  would 
you?" 

"But  he's  the  first  to  get  started,  he's  the  blood- 
thirstiest  of  all!" 

Bowie  laughed  again.  "You  don't  know  him,  Harry. 
— Oh  Zeke,  here,  wait  a  second!" 

"Can't!"  panted  the  alcalde,  riding  past  us.  "Got 
to  beat  'em  there!" 

Then  he  was  gone. 


io4  THE  LONE  STAR 

"You  see?"  said  Bowie  in  his  mocking  way. 

"Whar's  my  bridle?"  rose  Jack  Castleman's  growl 
in  the  dark. 

"And  mine?"  demanded  Doctor  Miller. 

The  others  were  equally  helpless. 

"That  Zeke  Williams,"  they  grumbled.  "We'll  sure 
lock  him  up  for  this  here! " 

They  hunted,  muttering  vengeance,  for  at  least  ten 
minutes,  and  then  the  bride  rose  from  the  stool  in  the 
front  room  where  she  was  sitting  with  the  other  excited 
women,  and  the  missing  harness  was  discovered  on  the 
floor  under  her  skirts.  Zeke  had  thought  ten  minutes 
would  be  enough,  she  explained. 

It  was  daybreak  when  we  all  drew  rein  at  my  cabin. 
We  found  Zeke  Williams  sitting  in  the  doorway.  He 
looked  up  at  us,  and  grinned. 

"Might's  well  lay  your  dander,  boys,"  he  said.  "Yes, 
he's  gone.  Done  gone  before  I  got  here.  Fact. " 

This  was  the  truth.  Yandell  had  contrived  a  word 
with  the  Mexicans  who  were  building  my  corral.  There 
had  followed  a  wild  confusion  among  the  mustangs, 
and  Yappe  had  abandoned  patient  and  prisoner  to  hurry 
out  to  see  what  the  trouble  was.  When  he  returned, 
Yandell  was  gone,  and  the  Mexicans  with  him. 


CHAPTER   XI 

A    VIVIFYING    OF    POLITICS 

ONE  week  later,  and  I  find  myself  in  San  Felipe  de 
Austin.  I  am  "a  delegate  and  a  grievance," 
though  mostly  in  the  latter  capacity,  I  suspect.  Major 
Kerr,  Dr.  Miller,  and  Captain  Brown  are  more  like  the 
real  delegates  from  Gonzales.  We  are  in  San  Felipe 
for  the  purpose  of  holding  a  convention  of  all  Texas. 
This  accounts  for  Bowie's  presence  at  Val  Bennet's 
infair,  as  Bowie  was  then  on  his  way  from  San  An- 
tonio to  the  convention,  and  it  explains  the  deeper 
meaning  in  his  veiled  statement  at  the  time  about  all 
Texas  resenting  legislative  interference. 

Until  then  politics  had  been  for  me  a  region  coexten- 
sive with  the  arid  wastes  of  boredom.  I  knew  small 
patience  with  the  heated  arguments  in  Al  Martin's 
store.  No  juries,  no  habeas  corpus,  no  liberty  of  con- 
science, no  self-taxation,  nor  self-governent,  nor  self- 
protection;  these  were  mighty  terms  worn  frazzled,  it 
seemed  to  me,  and  not  grievances.  Even  if  there  was  a 
legislature  off  in  Coahuila,  with  ten  Coahuilans  to  two 
Texans,  and  even  if  the  two  Texans  were  sometimes 
expelled,  what  then?  Why  dissolve  the  state  partner- 
ship when  there  were  no  evidences  of  our  being  joined? 
Of  course,  Coahuila's  mountains  and  Mexicans  were 
different  from  Texas  plains  and  Texans,  but  the  legis- 
lation for  one  did  not  obtrude  itself  on  the  other.  The 
Coahuilans  could  loot  their  state  treasury,  so  long  as  their 
tax  gatherers  did  not  come  among  us.  The  state  could 
lease  their  cock-pits  and  levy  on  billiard  tables,  but  we 

"5 


106  THE  LONE  STAR 

far  away  in  Texas  smoked  dutiable  cigars  duty  free, 
no  matter  how.  They  could  exclude  Americans  from 
Texas  by  decree,  but  they  did  not  in  fact.  So  altogether 
the  legislature  of  the  State  of  Coahuila  and  Texas  was 
as  vaguely  imminent  as  a  synod  of  deities  off  on  Mount 
Olympus.  Why  berate  Mexico,  and  pester  her  for 
separate  statehood?  Joyously,  eagerly,  and  unhindered, 
I  was  making  a  home  for  myself,  and  I  was  grateful 
accordingly.  Politics  were  a  dreary  business,  a  chronic 
malady  of  grumbling. 

And  then  a  ruffian  had  entered  my  home,  and  by 
grace  of  a  legislature  off  in  Coahuila,  announced 
himself  the  owner.  Whereupon  politics  were  acutely 
concrete,  and  statehood  was  no  more  the  stalking 
horse  of  vapid  oratory.  Statehood  was  a  poignantly 
desirable  thing.  And  we  all  fed  at  the  same  rack.  We 
all  writhed  under  the  sense  of  a  cynical  injustice.  For 
that  thieving  pack  calling  itself  our  legislature,  yet  not 
Texans,  were  selling  Texas  lands,  to  themselves  and 
their  friends,  the  land  sharks.  Al  Martin  said  truly 
enough.  We  had  showed  them  that  the  lands  had  a 
value,  and  now  the  harpies  were  swooping  down  on  the 
tempting  plunder.  They  had  just  sold  two  million  acres 
,for  a  mess  of  gumbo,  for  thirty  thousand  dollars.  Yes, 
portly,  dumpy  Al  Martin  said  truly  enough,  and  the 
spirit  of  the  lynching  party  was  in  us. 

We  asked  for  statehood,  as  had  been  solemnly  prom- 
ised in  the  Mexican  Constitution,  and  we  believed  that 
Santa  Ana  would  see  that  the  promise  was  kept.  I  wish 
the  world  could  know  our  giants  in  council  in  that  rude 
hall  of  logs  as  we  Texans  know  them  already.  I  know 
that  I  marvelled  as  I  had  not  yet  at  this  Texas 
land  of  good  red  blood.  I  felt  smaller  than  ever,  while 
my  heart  thrilled  with  the  pride  in  being  of  that  land. 
Very  meekly  I  cast  my  ballot  as  I  thought  right.  I  was 


A  VIVIFYING  OF   POLITICS  107 

not  on  a  battlefield  now.  It  was  the  field  of  statecraft, 
of  lofty  endeavour,  too,  and  I  began  to  stir,  unawares, 
with  a  fugitive,  ineffable  hope  of  ambition  later  on. 

You  would  not  wonder,  either,  had  you  tingled  under 
the  eloquence  of  those  Homeric  giants.  And  you  cer- 
tainly will  not  wonder  when  you  know  that  among  them 
was  Sam  Houston.  He  was  the  galvanic,  superb,  and 
powerful  figure  of  them  all.  He  had  come  with  the 
Redlanders.  He  was  a  Texan  now.  "Gentlemen,"  he 
had  said,  "Sam  Houston  does  not  desert  his  native  land. 
Sam  Houston,  gentlemen,  will  again  be  an  American 
citizen,  for  he  will  take  his  adopted  country  with  him." 
Yet  not  a  word  did  he  breathe  of  revolution.  Big, 
simple  man,  he  was  the  craftiest  there.  But  no  one 
would  have  thought  so  to  watch  him  strolling  about  the 
crude  wooden  town;  his  red  blanket,  his  wide  red  sash 
with  fancy  beadwork,  his  leather  breeches  and  gaudy 
tiger-skin  vest,  and  his  gold-headed  cane,  and  his  tower- 
ing presence,  making  him  the  observed  of  every  eye; 
and  he  winning  every  heart,  too,  with  that  affable  smile 
of  portly  dignity.  I  can  see  him  yet,  as  he  doffed  his 
great  bell-crowned  beaver  to  each  settler's  wife,  or 
laughed  almost  to  the  whoop  of  an  Indian  among  the 
wildest  young  daredevils  on  the  Brazos. 

But  the  dangerous,  resolute  mood  of  all  Texas  might 
not  have  been  kept  in  leash  had  it  not  been  for  one  other, 
and  I  must  speak  of  him,  too,  for  it  was  through  him  that 
I  went  to  the  City  of  Mexico.  He  was  a  straightforward, 
guileless  gentleman  whom  the  children  all  liked.  Worry 
and  responsibility  marked  his  gentle  bearing  now,  and 
nagged  cruelly  at  the  enduring  fortitude  of  the  man. 
Yet  there  was  a  watchfulness,  a  plea  for  patience,  in 
his  kind,  affectionate  manner  that  ruled  the  convention 
with  the  hope  of  peace  and  relief  both.  Mexico  would 
keep  her  promises,  he  confidently  believed,  so  that  even 


io8  THE  LONE  STAR 

the  Redlanders  almost  believed  so.  His  one  care 
was  to  save  the  unprepared  young  colonies  from  war. 
He  was  our  own  Stephen  Austin,  whom  Houston  called 
the  Father  of  Texas. 

Mr.  Austin's  reliance  on  Santa  Ana's  good  faith  was 
what  really  got  me  into  the  notion  of  going  to  Mexico. 
Like  the  other  delegates,  I  came  to  regard  Santa  Ana  as 
our  best  friend.  Santa  Ana  would  see  justice  done. 
He  would  get  me  the  title  to  my  headlight.  Nothing 
simpler.  And  as  Mr.  Austin  was  going  too,  to  submit 
our  respectful  petition  for  statehood,  I  asked  Mr.  Austin 
if  I  could  not  accompany  him,  and  perhaps  be  of  use  as 
his  secretary.  He  smiled  in  a  fatherly  way  at  my 
enthusiasm,  and  warned  me  that  the  journey  would  be 
very  long,  very  hard,  and  exceedingly  perilous.  He 
had  made  it  himself  once  before,  on  foot,  disguised  as  a 
common  soldier.  That  was  when  he  went  to  obtain 
the  colonisation  grant  already  promised  his  father  under 
the  Spaniards.  Thus  Mr.  Austin  chatted  with  me  until 
he  thought  I  had  gotten  the  notion  out  of  my  head.  But 
I  hadn't.  The  notion  was  hooked  in  too  obstinately, 
and  when  he  saw  that,  he  smiled  again  and  thanked 
me  for  my  company  on  the  trip.  No  wonder  the 
children  loved  him! 

Not  many  days  later  we  two  had  changed  the  waving 
prairie  for  a  thousand  miles  of  rugged  sierra,  passing 
first  the  mesquite  desert  and  that  torpid  mud  snake 
called  the  Rio  Grande.  We  weathered  the  craggy 
billows  of  rock,  we  toiled  on  and  on  among  thorns,  we 
bent  over  a  white,  sun-blistered  trail  under  a  yellow 
sky,  we  huddled  of  a  night  in  wayside  adobes,  knowing 
that  scorpions  crawled  the  rafters  overhead,  and  wonder- 
ing if  we  were  to  be  preserved  yet  the  next  day  from  the 
cutthroat  bands  in  every  gorge.  And  then,  from  the 
greatest  height,  we  beheld  at  last  the  ancient  paradise, 


A  VIVIFYING   OF    POLITICS  109 

the  valley  of  Anahuac,  and  its  off-lying  lake  in  the 
skies.  We  beheld  the  glimmering,  lazy  city  there, 
dozing  in  the  green  valley  under  two  snow-clad  peaks. 
It  was  a  city  of  opulent  stone,  of  paint-besmeared  mud 
walls,  of  Jesuit  facades,  of  Moresque  domes  like  a  garish 
mirage  across  the  Arabian  sand,  of  a  citadel  on  a  cypress- 
tapestried  rock,  and  squat  jacales  surrounding.  There 
were  villas  and  cool  gardens.  There  were  narrow,  chalk- 
dusty  streets,  swarming  with  blanketed  vermin.  They 
were  vermin,  poor  souls,  but  a  reproach  to  their  priests 
and  conquerors,  and  crawling  as  their  rulers  expected 
us  to  crawl — expected  of  us  Texans!  Then  there  were 
plazas  of  flowers, -and  stately  paseos,  and  curvetting 
steeds  and  coronetted  coaches,  and  Castilian  cloaks, 
and  ravishing  eyes  behind  filmy  lace  mantillas.  The 
journey's  end  was  its  own  reward.  We  were  in  the 
capital  of  Mexico.  It  was  our  capital  too,  the  capital 
of  our  swarthy,  ever  fighting,  ever  declaiming,  ever 
smiling,  bowing,  proud,  hidalgo-Indian  rulers. 

The  City  was  rejoicing,  and  the  Nation;  blanketed 
vermin,  Castilian  cloaks,  all  of  them.  They  were 
acclaiming  their  Idol,  their  Libertador  thrice  over. 
They  were  acclaiming  Santa  Ana,  their  own  Don  An- 
tonio, the  champion  of  Liberty  and  Constitution,  the 
Napoleon  of  the  West,  the  glory  of  all  Mexicans. 
Heavens,  how  proud  they  were  of  him!  They  had  just 
made  him  their  president,  unanimously.  It  was  genuine, 
heartfelt  pride.  There  was  trust,  affection,  in  it.  No 
man,  until  that  hour,  was  ever  so  loved  in  Mexico.  For 
once  the  fulsome  official  joy  was  merely  emphasis, 
whether  it  were  in  the  monuments  erected,  in  the  por- 
traits painted,  the  speeches  made,  the  bands  playing, 
the  flags,  the  Greek  fire,  the  state  legislatures  declaring 
him  "benemfrito  of  heroic  grade,"  or  whether  in  the 
change  of  Tampico's  name  to  his  own.  because  he  had 


no  THE  LONE  STAR 

repulsed  the  Spaniards  there.  These  were  sycophant 
things,  but  the  new  president  was  in  the  hearts  of  his 
people.  There  was  no  mistaking  that.  The  Santanistas 
were  partisans  no  longer.  They  were  the  Nation. 

Mr.  Austin  wrote  back  hopefully  of  his  reception  by 
the  illustrious  Santa  Ana.  "Is  it  likely,"  Santa  Ana 
had  told  him,  "that  I,  who  risked  my  life  for  the  very 
liberties  the  Texans  desire,  should  look  on  them  with 
indifference?"  No,  the  Texans  were  his  friends,  and 
he  grieved  because  we  had  not  been  treated  with  justice 
and  liberality. 

Beside  these  glorious  hopes  for  Texas,  my  own  little 
plaint  seemed  trivial,  though  embodied  in  the  general 
one.  But  I  had  no  idea  of  bothering  Mr.  Austin  with 
it  lest  in  his  kindness  he  might  endanger  the  success  of 
his  mission  for  all  of  us.  I  was  greatly  astonished, 
therefore,  when  he  said,  "Oh,  by  the  way,  Harry,  His 
Excellency  was  asking  about  you." 

"Surely,"  I  exclaimed,  "you  did  not  trouble  to  men- 
tion my " 

"No,"  he  replied,  "though  I  was  going  to.  But  it 
seems  he  knew  of  your  coming  already." 

I  started  to  laugh,  but  the  perplexity  in  Mr.  Austin's 
expression  showed  that  he  was  not  joking.  We  had 
heard  before  now  of  a  hawk-like  interest  in  whatever  we 
Texans  did,  but  this  all-seeing  foreknowledge  of  an 
obscure  arrival  like  myself  was  almost  uncanny. 

"Perhaps  it's  my  father  again,"  I  ventured.  That 
was  usually  the  reason  for  my  being  singled  out. 

"Of  course,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Austin.  "I  remember 
now,  the  President  said  he  wished  to  'obsequiar'  the  son 
of  Governor  Ripley  who  had  chosen  to  become  a  Mexican 
citizen.  It's  your  chance  to  plead  your  case.  But 
Harry,"  he  added  seriously,  "don't  forget  the  rest  of  us. 
The  President  is  bound  to  think  better  of  us  if  he  knows 


A  VIVIFYING  OF  POLITICS  in 

one  example  of  bona  fide  settler  like  you.  So  carry  along 
that  honest  smile  of  yours,  and  do  what  you  can  for 
Texas." 

Bless  me,  how  my  ears  burned!  The  Father  of  Texas 
himself  was  booming  my  poor  discretion.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  even  I  might  count  as  something  for  Texas?  I 
know  that  I  wanted  to,  very  much. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    DOMINANT   IDOL 

THE  most  remarkable  encounter  of  my  life,  except- 
ing those  made  vivid  by  bloodshed,  was  assuredly 
that  one  with  the  President  of  Mexico  in  his  palace.  A 
more  distracting  riddle  in  the  way  of  a  Latin-American 
has  never,  to  my  knowledge,  toyed  with  the  destinies 
of  his  country.  To  try  to  explain  him  is  vexation;  yet 
once  started,  one  keeps  on  trying.  At  the  time  my 
experience  of  the  world  was  still  largely  bounded  by 
books,  and  projected  into  reality — unreality  would  be 
better — by  an  overweening  imagination,  so  it  was  not 
strange  that  his  was  a  character  that  left  me  hopelessly 
at  sea.  But  to  tell  the  truth,  I  haven't  got  my  soundings 
in  that  quarter  even  yet. 

The  layers  on  layers  of  twisted,  baffling  character  that 
that  man  had!  When  you  were  most  ready  to  declare 
him  shallow,  there  you  were  again,  floundering  in  un- 
known depths.  The  tortuous  winding  labyrinth  of 
his  soul  no  light  might  fathom. 

The  man's  career  was  an  enigma  no  less.  Each 
crisis  in  it  would  have  been  the  knell  of  doom  to  any 
other  career.  His  popularity  when  we  came  to  Mexico 
looked  solid  enough  to  endure  forever.  Yet  be- 
fore long  his  name  was  cursed,  and  in  lieu  of  his  flesh 
and  bone — for  he  had  fled  abroad — his  statues  were 
crumbled  underfoot.  But  the  nation  he  had  vilely 
betrayed  and  pillaged  called  him  back,  until  he  fled  once 
more,  basely  leaving  the  capital  to  a  foreign  invader. 
Popular  wrath  then  knew  no  ignominy  commensurate 


THE  DOMINANT  IDOL  113 

with  its  hate.  But  do  not  be  too  certain  that  this  man's 
star  was  not  to  rise  again.  His  was  a  mysterious  hold 
that  sucked  as  a  leech  at  the  people's  heart,  and  that 
people  welcomed  him  once  more,  and  lifted  him  to  a 
power  more  absolute  than  ever  before.  He  was  emperor, 
except  in  name,  over  a  country  that  shot  its  emperors. 
But  again  the  exception,  he  was  not  shot.  He  knew  too 
well  the  science  of  running  away  in  time.  He  died  at 
last,  a  natural  death.  More,  he  died  a  natural  death  in 
Mexico. 

I  know  that  I  anticipate  in  this,  farther  even  than  my 
last  page  will  carry.  But  I  cannot  resist,  if  only  to  show 
that  it  was  not  naivete*  altogether  that  tangled  me  up 
in  certain  direful  misconceptions  regarding  this  man 
Santa  Ana. 

Mr.  Austin  brought  the  friendly  intimation  from  him 
one  day  that  I  might  come  at  any  time,  but  that  same 
evening  would  do  very  well,  if  suiting  my  convenience. 
Mr.  Austin  smiled  in  his  gentle  way  as  he  said  it.  Guile- 
less himself,  he  yet  knew  the  sensitive  punctilio  of  the 
people  we  were  among,  and  he  could  smile  at  the  delight- 
ful superficialities  of  Mexican  intercourse.  Consulting 
my  august  convenience,  and  my  wardrobe  as  well — a 
remnant  wardrobe  of  former  Louisiana  days — I  donned 
a  frilled  shirt  and  white  stock,  a  blue  clawhammer  with 
gold  buttons,  a  heavy  seal  fob,  and  the  rest,  and  hied 
myself  across  the  Zocalo  toward  the  Palacio  Nacional 
just  as  the  great-tongued  Cathedral  bell  was  giving  the 
stroke  of  nine. 

Brown  monkey-faced  guards  in  yellow  cloaks  stood 
as  rigid  as  their  own  bayonets  in  the  wide  Palacio  door- 
way, and  there  were  more  of  them  in  the  big  patio,  and 
yet  more  up  and  down  the  staircase.  I  repressed  my 
usual  desire  to  explain  the  goodness  of  my  intentions  to 
aught  resembling  personified  authority,  and  walked  by 


ii4  THE  LONE  STAR 

them.  My  garb  was  enough  to  belie  the  lack  of  self- 
assurance,  and  I  put  back  my  shoulders  to  fill  out  the 
right  compass  of  importance,  much  as  Hector  swelled 
within  the  pilfered  armour  of  Achilles.  And  as  with 
Hector  on  that  occasion,  the  gods  were  good  to  me,  for 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs  a  little  black-moustached  orderly 
in  a  cocked  hat  with  rainbow  plumes  jtook  my  card 
and  bowed  and  gestured  and  smiled,  and  would  I  deign 
to  follow  him?  It  seemed  that  I  would,  and  I  did;  fol- 
lowed him  plump  into  the  state  dining  hall  of  crimson 
and  gold,  plump  into  a  gorgeous  state  dinner  then  under 
way. 

Now  I  was  too  simple  at  the  time  to  think  anything 
than  that  I  had  blundered.  Yet  for  the  crafty  Santa 
Ana  to  honour  me  at  all  betrayed  intention,  and  one  of 
his  methods  was  to  dazzle.  Besides,  there  is  often  a 
quaint  vanity  in  the  great,  especially  in  those  new  to 
power  by  race  or  training.  It  is  barely  possible,  there- 
fore, that  the  President  of  Mexico  wished  even  an  ob- 
scure American  to  know  that  his  state  dinners  were 
matters  of  6clat  as  well  as  those  in  the  executive  mansion 
of  Louisiana.  However  the  blunder  happened,  this 
Santanista  enigma  is  a  guessing  business  better  left  to 
others. 

The  generals  and  admirals  at  table,  for  so  they  seemed 
in  their  regalia,  no  doubt  resented  my  intrusion.  Each 
had  his  own  ambition  to  forward,  and  a  newcomer  was 
one  rival  the  more  to  rob  them  of  precious  moments 
with  the  sovereign  chief.  But  these  were  Mexicans, 
and  they  betrayed  the  politician's  human  nature  in  a 
glance  at  most,  and  all  their  expressions  were  enlivened 
immediately  after  with  tentative  welcome.  Then  from 
the  head  of  the  table,  which  was  begirt  behind  his  chair 
with  flunkies  and  orderlies  and  officers  even  to  the  rank 
of  colonel,  there  arose  a  sallow,  clean.- shaven  man  of 


THE  DOMINANT  IDOL  115 

about  forty  with  a  tri-coloured  cordon  and  many  jewelled 
stars  upon  his  breast. 

"A  thousand  pardons,  caballeros,"  he  said  to  his 
guests,  unctuously,  "but" — he  paused,  looking  at  my 
card  in  his  hand ;  then  turned  to  where  I  stood  near  him 
blinking  under  the  glare  of  the  candelabra,  and  before 
I  knew  it,  I  was  shaking  hands  with  the  President  of 
Mexico.  His  affable  voice  and  manner  put  me  at  ease, 
but  his  hand — involuntarily  I  started.  The  hand  had 
a  cold,  soft  feel,  and  I  remembered  the  night  when  I  had 
touched  a  coiled  snake  in  my  sleep — "But — ah  yes,  you 
are  the  son  of " 

I  understood  his  Spanish,  and  supplied  my  father's 
name  for  him.  "But,"  I  added  hastily,  "I  can  come 
another  time." 

"No,  no,  no,"  he  objected,  putting  the  cold  hand  on 
my  shoulder.  "No,  believe  me,  senor  mio,  it's  my 
fault,  entirely.  I  did  not  think  of  this  little  luncheon  at 

the  time,  or "  He  paused,  smiling,  to  see  if  he  were 

forgiven. 

A  cordiality  so  insinuating  prompted  me  to  speak. 
But  as  I  met  his  eyes,  the  words  were  forgotten.  The 
gracious  smile  was  on  his  lips  only.  The  eyes  might 
have  been  of  another  man  in  another  humour,  and  the 
effect  was  disconcerting.  Have  you  ever  watched  a 
squirrel  locate  a  nut  under  the  snow,  and  then,  sitting  on 
his  haunches,  nimble  at  it  hungrily  ?  If  so,  then  you  may 
have  been  fascinated,  and  revolted  too,  by  the  squirrel's 
eyes.  They  were  quick,  beautiful,  bead-like  eyes,  but 
they  were  so  steadily  alert  to  aught  that  might  disturb 
his  gluttony,  that  the  cold,  cruel,  metallic  greed  in  them 
was  none  other  than  lecherous.  Santa  Ana's  eyes 
were  fine  eyes,  in  a  way;  deep  and  round  and  large, 
like  a  seal's.  But  they  were  the  squirrel's  eyes,  too,  in 
their  greed,  in  their  cold,  settled  watchfulness. 


n6  THE  LONE  STAR 

"Ai,  caballeros,"  he  was  saying,  raising  his  voice  for 
the  company,  "here  we  have  a  new  fellow-citizen,  for 
the  first  time  in  the  capital  of  his  adopted  country." 
With  which  the  hand  passed  behind  me,  and  drew  me 
toward  the  table,  coiling  more  and  more  tightly,  and  I — 
glorying  in  the  honour. 

The  generals  and  admirals  muttered  things  courteous 
and  gutteral  with  vast  dignity.  They  were  the  rulers 
of  Mexico,  by  leave  of  the  ruler.  They  were  senators, 
diputados,  ministers,  governors  of  states;  which  pre- 
cluded none  from  being  a  general  into  the  bargain.  If 
they  had  not  been  fighters,  they  wouldn't  have  been 
there  at  all.  They  bore  the  names  of  Mexican  history 
for  twenty  years  to  come;  names  in  conspiracy  and 
revolution;  in  battles,  victories,  retreats,  and  massacre, 
in  any  synonym  for  bloodletting.  Theirs  were  the 
names  of  dictators;  names  also  of  blindfolded  wretches 
facing  an  adobe  wall,  the  little  score  of  ambition  paid 
off  at  last. 

Among  them  was  Gomez  Farias,  the  Vice-President, 
an  uncompromising  Republican,  and  a  genuine  patriot. 
He  had  helped  Santa  Ana  overturn  the  late  dictator, 
and  for  cause  he  would  as  readily  do  likewise  against 
Santa  Ana.  Gomez  was  a  dour,  severe  man.  As  to  feature 
and  backbone,  he  might  have  been  a  Scotchman.  An- 
other there  was  a  Republican  no  less,  a  fiery  one  in  his 
youth,  a  scholarly  one  in  his  later  years.  He  had  pleaded 
eloquently  for  his  country's  liberties  in  Madrid  itself, 
and  then,  when  this  Santa  Ana  now  at  the  same  table 
with  him  held  the  king's  commission,  he  was  fighting 
Spain,  or  languishing  three  long  years  in  a  Spanish  dun- 
geon. He  would  brave  as  much'  again  for  the  Con- 
stitution he  had  helped  to  frame.  But  just  at  present 
he  was  governor  of  the  State  of  Mexico.  Zavala  was 
his  name,  and  we  in  Texas  afterwards  came  to  know  him 


THE  DOMINANT  IDOL  117 

affectionately  as  Don  Lorenzo,  when  he  made  his  home 
among  us  on  the  San  Jacinto. 

To  a  third  man  of  that  company  I  was  assigned  more 
especially,  and  I  must  speak  of  him  too.  He  was  a 
young  colonel  of  immense  spirits  and  cheerfulness.  The 
Spaniards  had  hanged  his  father,  the  patriot  priest 
Morelos,  and  here  he  was,  aide-de-camp  and  favourite  of 
Santa  Ana,  the  one-time  Royalist.  This  fact  alone  is 
a  good  master-key  to  the  vagaries  of  Mexican  politics. 
Colonel  Almonte  had  been  bred  in  the  States,  and  as 
he  got  along  quite  as  vivaciously  in  English  as  in  Spanish, 
I  naturally  fell  to  his  care.  He  had  a  chair  drawn  up 
for  me,  between  himself  and  the  President,  and  there  I 
sat,  in  that  high  company,  dazedly  supping  coffee  and 
cognac,  not  knowing  which  was  which,  and  puffing  at 
a  tremendous  black  cigar.  Emotions  were  confused 
and  glowing  just  then.  My  mother's  tender  smile 
flitted  in  the  haze,  tolerant  and  amused.  Also  there 
was  a  half-resentful  wish  that  that  Redlander  girl  might 
see  me  beside  the  powerful  chief  over  eight  million 
people,  and  be  rebuked  for  her  disdain.  But  the  sus- 
picion grows  on  me  that  of  Rosalie  I  did  not  think  at  all. 

What,  however,  is  more  to  the  point,  is  this — the 
squirrel  eyes  were  on  me  at  that  very  moment.  They 
gauged  my  pride  and  elation  easily  enough.  Santa 
Ana  could  judge  his  man  fiendishly  well,  else  he  would 
not  have  been  a  powerful  chief  over  anybody.  I  was 
enthralled.  In  a  boy's  impulsive  gratitude  for  being 
treated  like  a  man,  I  would  have  done  nearly  anything 
he  might  ask.  As  it  happened,  I  got  an  intimation  to 
remain  when  all  the  others  except  Colonel  Almonte  got 
theirs  to  go,  though  with  such  oily  suavity  that  they 
thought  they  were  going  of  their  own  volition.  Only 
the  dour  Farias  regarded  our  host  with  aught  like 
distrust.  The  reason  was  this,  a  general  in  the  provinces 


n8  THE  LONE  STAR 

had  that  day  "pronounced"  for  a  centralised  govern- 
ment with  Santa  Ana  as  dictator.  But  what  would  the 
high-minded  Republican  Santa  Ana  do  in  the  face  of  so 
peculiar  a  revolution?  The  stern  Farias  was  wondering, 
and  he  and  Zavala  went  out,  arm  in  arm,  and  Farias 
was  talking  low  and  earnestly.  A  baffled  frown  dark- 
ened the  countenance  of  each.  Santa  Ana  watched 
them  go,  and  ferocity  gleamed  in  his  eyes.  But  his 
frown  was  not  a  baffled  one.  He  read  those  two  men 
perfectly.  The  smile  was  again  on  his  lips  as  he 
turned  to  me. 

"Ha,  now  then,  Senor  Reeply,  now  to  reward  you  for 
this  long  journey!  Let  us  see,  how  would  a  title  to  your 
headright  answer?" 

I  nodded  eagerly,  yet  wondered  how  he  knew  my 
trouble,  since  Mr.  Austin  had  not  told  him.  Colonel 
Almonte  gaily  led  the  way  to  the  President's  private 
sanctum,  where  he  filled  little  copitas  with  cognac  and 
passed  around  Havana  cigarettes.  He  helped  out  my 
poor  use  of  Spanish  as  I  gave  a  flurried  account  of  Lush 
Yandell's  surprise  party. 

"Ai  de  mi"  cried  the  young  Colonel,  "but  those  are 
the  things  that  most  infuriate  our  Excelentisimo  Presi- 
dente.  The  Excelentisimo,"  he  went  on,  the  word 
meaning  a  superlative  kind  of  Excellency,  "will  not  have 
his  good  friends  the  Texicanos  so  wronged  by  the 
Coahuila  legislature,  even  if — if  he  has  to  do  away  with 
legislatures  altogether." 

"  My  title "  I  began. 

But  His  Excellency  brushed  the  question  aside,  as 
though  our  Texas  lands  were  not  worth  the  pains  of 
giving  away.  The  governor  of  Coahuila  would  receive 
certain  orders,  and  my  title  would  be  waiting  for  me  on 
my  return. 

"But   Dios   tnio,"   exclaimed   the   President,  leaning 


THE  DOMINANT  IDOL  119 

forward  in  his  chair,  and  smiling  at  me  with  his  lips, 
"one  square  league,  that's  not  an  alfalfa  patch!  The 
son  of  the  Senor  Governor  Reeply — But  there,  amigo, 
it  will  not  take  more  paper,  nor  ink  either,  to  give  a 
title  for — let  us  say,"  and  he  held  me  intently  in  his  gaze, 
his  lips  still  smiling,  "let  us  say  for  fifty  leagues." 

I  gasped  as  Almonte  interpreted.  Almonte's  tone 
reflected  the  President's  benevolence.  There  was  no 
flaw  in  his  master's  finesse,  but — well,  Almonte's  tone 
was  a  shade  too  benevolent.  Yet  there  were  the  fifty 
leagues.  Fifty  square  leagues!  How  that  magnificent 
estate  stretched  boundlessly  to  the  horizon  in  the  mind's 
eye! 

"Ten  miles,"  Almonte's  purring  words  fell  on  my  ear, 
"  ten  miles  of  river  frontage,  if  you  wish." 

Now  there  is,  I  reverently  believe,  a  God-given  instinct 
for  the  soul.  With  us  higher  animals  the  senses  and 
mind  both  may  be  duped,  and  the  body  ensnared,  but 
the  soul  ...  At  any  rate,  I  felt  myself  in  deep 
water.  Once  in  Louisiana,  when  I  was  out  wading,  the 
ugly  flat  head  of  a  water-moccasin  rose  to  the  surface 
just  in  front  of  me,  and  you  may  imagine  how  I  turned 
and  splashed  back  to  dry  land.  Mine  was  a  similar 
performance  now.  Though  I  saw  no  venomous  head,  I 
felt  that  it  was  there. 

With  cheeks  burning  lest  I  seem  discourteous,  I  tried 
to  find  the  right  words  for  declining.  But  Almonte 
gave  me  no  chance.  "It  would  never  do,"  he  said  gently, 
"to  spurn  the  Excelentisimo's  so  kind  offer.  It " 

A  low  command  cut  him  short.  Though  low,  it  was 
sharp  like  a  pistol  shot.  His  Excellency  knew  the  be- 
ginning of  a  false  play  where  the  younger  fox  did  not. 
At  a  bound  we  were  safely  off  the  fifty  leagues,  and 
imperceptibly  I  was  lulled  into  the  same  fascinated  state 
as  before. 


120  THE  LONE  STAR 

His  Excellency,  for  instance,  was  kind  enough  to  be 
interested  in  my  labours  and  hopes  as  a  settler.  I  did 
not  plunge  at  once,  but  his  sympathy  was  so  genuine 
that  directly  my  enthusiasms  were  loosed  and  going  it 
full  tilt. 

"But,"  I  pleaded,  remembering  Mr.  Austin's  words, 
"all  the  others  are  the  same  way,  sir.  They  only  want 
a  chance  in  their  new  homes  to  become  the  most  flourish- 
ing and  peaceable  community  you  have  in  Mexico." 

"Bless  me  the  saints,"  exclaimed  the  President,  "you 
are  a  gifted  observer,  senor!  Tell  me,  though,  do  the 
Indians  trouble  much?" 

"Not  like  they  used  to.  You  see,  sir,  the  Texans  are 
pretty  good  shots." 

"U-m,  indeed?"  He  exchanged  glances  with  Almonte. 
"And  they  are  all  armed,  of  course?  Yes,  yes,  quite 
right,  too." 

"Yes,  and  any  invader  of  Texas  will  find  things  real 
pleasant."  I  merely  wished  him  to  understand  that 
in  her  new  citizens  Mexico  had  a  bulwark  against  a 
foreign  foe,  such  as  the  Spaniards  or  French  who  might 
land  on  our  coasts.  "Yes  sir,  we'd  not  like  to  be 
invaded." 

"U-m,  indeed?"  he  said  again,  and  his  quick  glance 
toward  Almonte  was  more  peculiar  than  before. 

"Ait  but  they  are  good  Mexicans,  Your  Excellency." 
returned  Almonte.  "Even  the — how  shall  I  say? — 
the  Redlanders." 

There  was  a  delightful  quizzing  gaiety  in  the  way  he 
said  it,  and  an  equally  delightful  assumption  of  intimacy 
and  confidence  between  him  and  me,  as  though  we  two 
could  enjoy  the  droll  idea  of  Redlanders  being  good 
Mexicans,  and  rather  have  the  advantage  of  His 
Excellency's  simplicity  for  imagining  such  a  thing. 

"What  the  Redlanders  may  be,"  I  said  earnestly, 


THE  DOMINANT  IDOL  121 

"depends  entirely  on  His  Excellency.  At  our  conver- 
sation they  shared  Mr.  Austin's  hopes,  and  even  Governor 
Houston " 

"Yoos-tone,  ah!" 

I  should  not  have  mentioned  that  name.  It  swept 
the  smile  from  the  President's  lips. 

"Pardon  me,  go  on,"  he  said.  "Yoos-tone,  yes. 
He  is  back  in  Texas.  He  has  settled  there?" 

"Near  Nacogdoches,  sir.  They  all  urged  him  to, 
including  the  alcalde." 

"Eh,  the  alcalde?  Yes,  quite  right.  It's  our  policy 
to  invite  the  best  citizens.  By  the  way,  though,  who 
is  our  alcalde  there?" 

"Why,  he — he  is  one  of  the  oldest  pioneers  in  that 
part." 

"Don't  you  recall  his  name,  senor?"  the  President 
queried  gently. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  reddening  to  find  my  evasion  nailed, 
"it's— why,  it's  Mr.  Buckalew." 

"Book-Bookalew?  Ai,  but  I  should  know  that  name! 
An  old  pioneer,  you  say?  Has  he  ever  been  to  Mexico? 
No?  Then  perhaps  he  was  in  the  Gachupin  wars? " 

"Yes  sir,"  I  said,  anxious  to  give  Old  Man  Buckalew 
a  clean  political  bill  of  health,  "he  fought  the  Spaniards 
for  Mexican  independence.  There's  nothing  finer  than 
to  hear  him  spin  his  yarns  about  those  days.  Why,  he 
helped  take  Goliad  and  San  Antonio,  and  then " 

"And  then?"  my  inquisitor  prompted  suavely,  "Ha, 
and  then  the  Battle  on  the  Medina!  And  was  that,  senor, 
among  the  fine  yarns  of  your  garrulous  friend? " 

But  he  knew  already,  from  the  hot  blood  in  my  tem- 
ples, that  I  must  have  heard  the  story.  Except  for 
the  menace  in  the  air,  I  could  have  laughed  at  that  story 
now,  for  who  could  imagine  the  mighty  personage  before 
me,  the  Napoleon  of  the  West,  grovelling  and  kissing 


122  THE  LONE  STAR 

the  hand  of  Old  Man  Buckalew!  It  was  too  absurd  to 
credit.  Yet  the  metallic  in  the  squirrel  eyes  left  no 
question  of  those  two  men  having  met  at  the  Battle  on 
the  Medina.  There  was  something  in  the  story,  too,  that 
Santa  Ana  did  not  wish  told.  And  now  he  knew  that 
Buckalew  \jas  still  in  Texas,  and  that  Buckalew  was 
telling  it.  "What  harm,  what  powerful  enemy,  had  I 
aroused  against  the  gentle  old  soul  back  in  Nacogdoches? 

"Ai,  now  I  recall  him" — Santa  Ana  laughed  so  easily 
that  I  was  convinced  that  Buckalew  had  twisted  his 
story  because  of  pique  in  being  captured  by  the  gallant 
young  Mexican.  If  not,  then  His  Excellency  was  the 
most  nimble  of  eels  for  slipping  out  of  ridicule — "  Ai, 
yes,  but  the  memory  is  painful,  because,  senor,  at  that 
time  I  was  an  ardent,  misguided  youth,  and  righting 
against  the  liberties  of  my  ever  dear  country.  But  his 
little  sefiora?  Ah.  can  you  tell  me  how  goes  it  with  the 
little  red-lipped  senora?" 

"You  mean  Nan's  mother?" 

Why,  though,  I  wondered  immediately  after,  should 
he  ask  such  a  question? 

" Ai,  Dios,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  fiery,  delicious  beauty 
that  she  was!  But  I  forget,  that  was  years  ago.  She 
is  old  and  wrinkled  by  now,  eh?" 

"She  is  dead,"  I  blurted  out. 

"Then  this  senonta  you  speak  of,  her  daughter?" 
The  first  revolting  greed  in  his  eyes  flamed  anew.  "This 
Nan,  she  is " 

"You  mean  Miss  Buckalew,  sir?" 

"  A-h,  and  she,  she  also  is  exquisite?  " 

" She? "  I  cried  hotly.     "She  is  just  a  child! " 

Then,  for  the  first  time  that  evening,  1  took  the 
initiative  as  lord  over  my  own  movements.  I  mean 
that  I  rose  to  go,  and  I  went. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    LAND    OF    PROMISES 

THE  Excelentisimo  Presidente  was  not  again  taken 
with  the  desire  for  intimate  converse,  and  I  saw 
him  no  more  during  my  stay  unless  at  a  bullfight  or  cock 
main.  He  could  bet  as  eagerly  on  the  roosters,  and 
win  as  joyously,  as  any  vermin-eaten  leprero  there. 
Aides  to  the  rank  of  colonel  surrounded  him  in  his 
tapestried  box,  and  the  military  band  was  ever  ready 
for  that  crashing  blare  of  triumph  known  as  the  diana 
whenever  the  Santanista  cock  survived.  The  Napoleon 
of  the  West  copied  the  approved  Napoleonic  manner. 
He  covered  the  pennies  of  the  blanketed  vulgar  as 
though  he  were  one  of  them,  and  allowed  them  a  famil- 
iarity not  accorded  to  generals  and  ladies  with  their 
jolden  doubloons. 

Santa  Ana's  pride  in  his  own  particular  breed  of 
roosters  was  almost  fatherly.  Once,  when  one  of  them 
went  down  like  a  weighted  corpse  to  the  sea,  the  Presi- 
dent's sallow  temples  blackened  ominously.  He  called 
his  mayordomo,  and  charged  him  with  not  tying  on  the 
gaff  properly.  He  all  but  struck  the  man,  but  there 
were  many  eyes  on  him,  and  with  a  "  Vaya!  "  and  a  laugh, 
he  shoved  the  fellow  away  good-naturedly.  Then 
everybody  laughed  also,  and  everybody  was  charmed 
with  His  Excellency's  way  of  assuming  chagrin  as  a 
jest. 

That  was  the  last  time  I  saw  Santa  Ana  in  Mexico. 
But  he  had  promised  me  what  I  had  come  for,  so  I  was 
only  waiting  until  Mr.  Austin  could  finish  his  own  mission. 

123 


i24  THE  LONE  STAR 

Once  before  in  this  country  Mr.  Austin  had  passed 
through  the  school  of  manana,  where  one  learns  to  match 
delay  with  patience,  yet  for  all  that  the  good,  simple 
man  worked  and  waited  in  high  hopes.  But  the  promise 
for  "to-morrow"  grew  into  the  week  after,  into  the 
month  after  that,  and  more  and  more  hazily  into  the 
future.  The  Mexican  of  the  promise  in  this  case  was 
Santa  Ana.  But  there  was  that  general  who  had  pro- 
nounced for  Santa  Ana  as  dictator.  That  general  must 
be  attended  to  first.  Santa  Ana  took  solemn  oath  that 
he  would  die  rather  than  accept  any  power  other  than 
that  stipulated  by  the  Constitution;  then  marched 
forth  at  the  head  of  a  punitive  army  to  chastise  the 
traitorous  general.  But  the  punitive  army  turned  on 
Santa  Ana  instead,  and  made  him  prisoner,  and  swore 
that  it  would  hold  him  so  until  he  consented  to  be 
dictator. 

Back  in  the  capital  the  dour  Farias  and  the  unflinch- 
ing Zavala  raised  a  Republican  force  of  good  citizens 
who  would  not  allow  their  glorious  champion  of  the 
Constitution  to  be  made  dictator  against  his  will,  and 
these  set  out  to  punish  the  punitive  army.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  temper  of  the  people,  so  at  great  peril 
to  himself  the  Constitutional  champion  eluded  the 
vigilance  of  his  captors,  and  triumphantly  reappeared 
in  the  capital. 

He  deserved  a  rest,  of  course,  and  as  the  Church  had 
to  be  taxed  and  the  Army  reduced,  he  left  these  un- 
popular measures  to  Farias,  and  retired  to  his  baronial 
hacienda  in  the  Hot  Country.  All  this  meant  that  Mr. 
Austin  was  having  a  despairing  time  of  it.  The  dis- 
traught Farias  would  not  promise  what  he  could  not 
perform,  and  he  could  perform  nothing  just  then  for  a 
remote  triviality  like  Texas.  Next  came  the  Cholera,  and 
filled  the  streets  with  plumed  hearses,  or  pine  boxes  on  the 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISES  125 

backs  of  peons.  Hundreds,  and  finally  thousands,  went 
to  their  graves.  There  was  famine,  too,  and  riots,  and 
assassination  in  every  alley.  But  a  pain  in  the  stomach 
was  the  worst.  It  could  be  mistaken  so  easily  for  the 
pestilence,  along  with  the  clammy  certainty  of  going 
one's  way  in  a  box  before  supper  time.  That  awful 
summer  was  a  summer  of  rank  fear  for  me.  Yet  Mr. 
Austin  stayed  calmly  on,  and  I  could  only  lock  my  jaws 
hard  and  tight  in  his  presence  to  keep  from  betraying 
myself.  But  one  evening  I  thought  surely  that  I  had 
failed.  Mr.  Austin  was  busy  over  a  letter,  interlining, 
correcting.  A  grimness  of  decision  marked  his  patient 
bearing. 

"Harry,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  me  with  his  unfailing 
kindness,  "don't  you  think  you've  waited  here  long 
enough?  Nothing  keeps  you." 

"You  think,  then  you  think  I'm — afraid?" 

The  troubled  lines  between  his  eyes  smoothed  out,  and 
he  gazed  at  me  curiously  before  he  spoke.  "It  wasn't 
right,  Harry,  it  wasn't  right,"  he  said  slowly.  "A 
useless  risk,  too.  Why  haven't  you  gone  back  to 
Texas?" 

"Then  you  think  I'm  afraid?" 

"Afraid?  Heavens,  my  boy,  who  wouldn't  be!  I've 
lost  count  of  how  many  they've  carried  out  of  this  very 
house.  But  that's  not  the  point.  I've  got  to  send  back 
this  letter." 

"And  you  stay  behind,  sir?" 

"That's  not  the  point,  either.  Yes,  I  stay  behind, 
for  at  least  I  can  get  them  to  repeal  the  Exclusion  Act. 
Now  this  letter  recommends  our  people  to  go  ahead  and 
form  a  state  government.  It's  an  open  letter,  but 
addressed  to  the  ayuntamiento  at  San  Antonio.  You 
needn't  take  it  any  farther  than  Gonzales,  as  Zeke 
Williams  can  have  it  forwarded  from  there." 


i26  THE  LONE  STAR 

In  the  daybreak  mist  one  morning  soon  after  I  found 
myself  beside  the  American  driver  of  an  old  yellow 
Mexican  diligencia.  For  half  a  week  we  steadily  dropped 
thousands  of  feet  toward  the  Gulf,  leaving  the  twin 
snow-clads  behind,  and  bringing  the  white-crested 
Orizaba  ever  nearer.  The  driver's  carbine  lay  at  his  side, 
but  he  took  it  up  now  and  then  and  held  it  cocked  until 
we  had  passed  a  certain  twist  in  the  defile.  At  such  a 
time  he  would  mention  some  notorious  bandit.  In  the 
overhanging  gorges  it  was  agonising.  The  robbers 
had  only  to  loosen  a  boulder  to  crush  the  coach  like  a 
pill-box.  We  were  as  helpless  as  a  crawling  beetle. 

Nothing  happened,  however,  and  at  last  I  stood  on 
the  deck  of  a  coastwise  barkentine,  and  in  farewell  to 
Mexico  gazed  at  Orizaba's  vanishing  nightcap.  The 
barkentine  touched  at  Matamoras,  and  there  I  had  the 
good  luck  to  find  a  sloop  loading  for  Port  Lavaca.  At 
Lavaca  I  hired  two  mules  and  a  driver,  and  was  soon 
plodding  northward  along  the  Guadalupe.  Our  good 
river,  had  evidently  been  on  a  rampage  not  long 
since.  Tales  of  suffering  were  heard  on  all  sides.  Not 
Indians  this  time,  nor  our  rulers,  but  our  best  friend, 
Nature,  had  turned  against  us.  There  had  been  floods, 
and  after  the  floods,  cholera  had  cast  poison  on  the 
mouldy  air.  At  Victoria  the  empresario  himself,  Don 
Martin  de  Leon,  was  a  victim.  At  San  Antonio  James 
Bowie  had  lost  his  wife  and  two  children,  all  his  family. 
Then  our  own  empresario,  Colonel  Green  De  Witt,  had 
died  in  the  capital  of  Coahuila,  though  not  from  the 
plague.  His  was  a  diploma  in  the  School  of  Manana. 
He  had  worn  himself  out  labouring  for  his  contract 
rights. 

Two  days  north  of  Victoria  I  rode  into  my  own 
Gonzales,  and  the  first  ten  minutes  of  handshaking  at 
Al  Martin's  were  enough  to  lay  my  private  anxieties. 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISES  127 

Yappe  alive?  Lord,  yes!  Couldn't  kill  the  nigger.  Wished 
they  could,  though,  he  drove  them  so  hard  just  'cause 
he  had  the  best  furs  to  sell.  Then  that  majordomo  of 
mine  had  inveigled  some  lusty  fellows  with  molasses 
into  risking  their  necks  until  they  had  broken  all  the 
mustangs.  But  Lush  Yandell?  Well,  now,  nobody 'd 
seen  hair  nor  hide  of  Yandell.  The  better  for  him,  too, 
said  Zeke  Williams. 

"But  here,  Rip,"  he  added,  remembering  something 
else,  "here's  service  on  you.  Order  to  lock  you  up, 
I  reckon." 

He  handed  out  a  portentous  document,  weighted  with 
the  seal  of  the  State  of  Coahuila  and  Texas.  I  opened 
it,  and  all  but  shouted.  It  was  the  title  to  my  head- 
right.  It  was  on  stamped  paper,  the  fees  and  costs  were 
marked  exempt,  and  all  requirements  of  cultivation  and 
stocking  were  recorded  as  fulfilled  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  authorities.  His  Excellency  merited  his  super- 
lative degree.  He  had  made  one  promise  good,  at  least. 

"But  how  in  the  world,"  I  asked,  "did  it  get  here  so 
soon?" 

"A  Mexican  brought  it,"  Williams  replied.  "  'Bout 
the  splendidest  Mex  I  ever  hope  to  see.  All  rigged 
out  with  an  amber  cigarette  holder  and  an  Englishman 
secretary,  bright  as  a  new  pin  right  from  Mexico  City. 
He's  travellin'  over  Texas,  he  says,  and  he's  around  town 
somewheres  yet.  You'll  sure  know  him  by  the  nice 
smell  of  them  cigarettes.  Havana,  and  white  paper, 
too." 

I  found  the  debonair  stranger  alone  under  the  trees 
in  the  Square.  He  was  contemplating  our  brass  six- 
pounder,  but  as  soon  as  he  saw  me,  he  had  me  in  a 
Mexican  hug,  patting  me  fondly  between  the  shoulder 
blades.  He  was  Santa  Ana's  charming  aide-de-camp, 
Colonel  Almonte.  He  brushed  aside  my  attempts  to 


I28  THE  LONE  STAR 

thank  him  for  the  title.  "Don  Antonio,"  he  said,  meaning 
the  President,  "could  not  let  his  Texan  friends  suffer." 
Almonte  himself  was  in  Texas  on  that  account.  His 
Excellency  had  sent  him  to  investigate  conditions — 
"for  the  governance,"  he  added  queerly,  "of  His  Excel- 
lency's future  policy  toward  us." 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  cannon, 
"here's  a  nice  bit  of  hollow  ware." 

"It  didn't  come  as  hollow  ware,"  I  remonstrated. 
There  was  a  certain  fiction  in  labelling  cannon  smuggled 
to  filibusters.  "The  Mexican  government  gave  it  to  us 
to  fight  Indians  with." 

"Of  course,"  he  laughed.  "Can't  I  recognise  the  old 
Spanish  casting?  It  is  a  pattern  to  admire,  too.  There 
are  no  more  around  here  you  can  show  me,  I  suppose?" 

"This  is  the  only  one,"  I  said,  not  exactly  liking  his 
questions,  "  and  we've  never  had  any  balls  for  it,  either." 

"No? — Oh,  I  wanted  to  ask,  how  did  you  leave  Mr. 
Austin?  Caramba,  now  there  is  a  gentleman  for  you!" 

"Indeed  yes,"  I  agreed  heartily.  "But  he  is  not 
treated  right,  nor  Texas  either.  Your  Congress  won't 
give  us  any  decision  on  our  statehood  petition." 

"Why  don't  you  do  without,  par  Dios?" 

"You  haven't  heard  of  Mr.  Austin's  letter,  then?" 

"His  letter?" 

"Yes,  an  open  one  to  the  ayuntamiento  of  San  Antonio. 
I  brought  it,  and  our  alcalde  here  has  it  now." 

The  blithe  aide-de-camp  passed  on  to  other  matters, 
and  like  everybody  else  he  met  all  over  Texas,  I  was 
won  by  his  cheery  ways.  But  he  left  Gonzales  the  next 
morning,  and  he  left  for  San  Antonio,  in  company  with 
the  messenger  Zeke  Williams  sent  with  the  letter. 

But  the  recommendations  in  that  letter  were  not 
heeded.  The  Texans  did  not  go  ahead  and  organise 
their  state  government.  And  the  reason  was  this — 


.THE  LAND  OF  PROMISES  129 

Mr.  Austin  had  been  arrested.  He  was  on  his  way  to 
join  us,  but  he  had  been  intercepted,  taken  back  to  the 
City  of  Mexico,  and  thrown  into  the  dungeon  of  the 
Inquisition  there.  The  Vice  President,  Farias,  had  been 
advised  of  his  letter,  and  regarded  it  as  seditious.  At 
least,  so  long  as  Mr.  Austin  was  kept  a  hostage  in  Mexico, 
the  Texans  would  not  imperil  his  life  by  following  his 
recommendations.  We  could  only  nurse  our  chagrin, 
enraged  and  helpless. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    CONSTANT    POSSIBILITY 

WE  IN  Texas  worked  hard  that  winter  to  keep  our 
minds  off  the  ominous  future.  It  was  hard  work, 
though,  and  the  smouldering  flame  broke  out  in  in- 
dignation meetings  everywhere,  and  each  settlement 
organised  a  committee  of  safety.  We  were,  you  see, 
always  thinking  of  Mr.  Austin  in  his  dungeon,  without 
pen  or  paper,  without  light,  almost  without  air,  and 
that  alone  was  enough  to  make  us  feel  wolfish  all  over. 

When  spring  opened,  Yappe  and  I  added  cotton  and 
cane  to  our  corn  patch.  We  had  a  milch  cow,  too,  and 
a  little  drove  of  cattle,  besides  seventy  or  eighty  swarms 
of  bees.  Yappe  was  really  a  majordomo  now,  for  he 
had  a  peon  family  to  boss.  There  was  an  old  woman 
who  cooked  and  washed,  a  yellow  withered  persimmon 
of  an  old  man  who  smoked  corn- husk  cigarettes  and 
made  our  leather  clothes  and  brogans,  his  three  sons  and 
two  nephews  who  were  good  vaqueros  if  it  wasn't  a 
feast  day,  and  a  small  tribe  of  youngsters  of  muddled 
relationship.  Sill  Leon  had  thus  solved  our  labour  prob- 
lem by  detaching  this  family  from  his  own  peons.  I 
gave  them  what  ground  they  wished  to  cultivate  for 
themselves,  which  was  little  enough,  and  they  had  their 
share  in  what  they  did  for  me,  so  I  called  them  the 
Peasantry. 

Our  one-room  log  cabin  was  duplicated  now  by 
another,  with  a  covered  gallery  between,  and  we  started 
a  lean-to  at  the  rear  for  a  kitchen.  The  Peasantry  built 
themselves  jacals  of  sapling  stakes  planted  upright, 

130 


THE  CONSTANT  POSSIBILITY  131 

which  they  plastered  over  with  mud  and  thatched  with 
tule.  Yappe  had  another  for  himself  and  christened 
it  the  "  Mayordomoria"  a  regular  high-stepper,  seven- 
league-boot  word  of  which  he  boasted,  though  the 
Spanish  language  could  not.  Then  we  had  a  partly 
covered  corral,  a  cow-shed,  a  smokehouse,  a  chicken- 
coop,  and  an  old  flat  scow  down  on  the  river  besides  our 
dug-out  canoe.  Here  was  a  fair  start  in  breaking  the 
wilderness,  and  I  hoped  more  than  ever  that  Mexico 
would  not  interfere. 

The  future,  indeed,  gave  r.ght  promise  during  that 
summer  of  being  able  to  take  care  of  itself.  Mr.  Austin 
was  no  longer  actually  in  prison,  though  still  kept  in  the 
City  without  trial.  He  had  been  released  by  Santa 
Ana,  who  had  returned  to  power  just  as  the  Church  and 
Army  were  about  to  depose  Farias.  His  Excellency 
had  even  regained  Mr.  Austin's  confidence,  and  the  letters 
home  from  our  persistent  optimist  were  again  filled  with 
hopes  of  peace.  And  then,  in  the  early  fall,  when  the 
sun  rose  at  its  brightest,  the  storm  burst. 

The  bursting,  I  may  say,  started  on  my  ranch,  and  it 
was  at  first  in  the  shape  of  Indians.  As  we  had  no 
powers  of  government  for  keeping  up  our  ranger  service, 
the  red  men  were  growing  bold  again.  One  day  at 
noon,  toward  the  last  of  September,  a  horseman  emerged 
from  the  river  timber  and  dismounted  at  my  cabin.  He 
was  grizzly  John  Castleman,  the  old  Missouri  backwoods- 
man who  lived  twenty  miles  west  beyond  the  frontier  of 
De  Witt's.  His  horse  was  dripping  wet.  He  had  swum 
the  river  instead  of  going  down  to  the  ford  at  Gonzales. 
His  ride  had  been  a  hard  one,  but  the  sour  curve 
was  gone  from  his  lips,  and  his  old  eyes  were  like  coals 
in  their  pleasurable  anticipation. 

"  Hi  thar,  sonny,"  he  called  cheerily,  "they're  streakin' 
it  perishin'  fast  right  this  here  way." 


i32  THE  LONE  STAR 

The  gruff  old  misanthrope  rarely  looked  so  brightly 
on  life,  and  I  was  all  hospitality.  He  must  be  the  fore- 
runner of  some  jolly  party  intent  on  a  frolic  at  my  house, 
I  thought. 

"They've  jes'  skelped  a  packtrain  down  thar  on  Sandy 
Crik,"  he  explained  as  to  this  amiable  surprise  party. 
"  'Twar  plum'  in  sight  of  my  cabin,  an'  " — his  acid  lips 
set  tight  for  an  instant — "I  couldn't  noways  take  a 
hand.  Old  woman  an'  the  little  uns,  ye  know.  But  thet 
kin  all  be  made  up  comf'table,  I  jedge,  ez  they  air  headed 
this  way." 

"Who  are ? "  I  gasped. 

"W'y,  the  Carankawies,  sonny.  They  hev  crossed 
the  deadline.  " 

Now  the  deadline  was  the  San  Antonio  River,  and 
the  Carancahuas  were  the  demons  of  all  the  demon  breeds 
of  Texas.  Mr.  Austin  and  the  settlers  had  driven  them 
to  the  coast  several  years  before,  but  the  priests  at  the 
Goliad  mission  had  interceded  for  them,  and  a  treaty 
fixing  the  deadline  was  the  result. 

"N-now  honey,"  stammered  Yappe,  "now  jes'  you 
lis'en  to  me.  You  sho'  gwine  get  hu't,  stayin'  heah,  an* 
then  wha'  yo'  ma  say?  Le's  jes'  all  cl'ar  out  fo'Gunjalus." 

I  looked  around  hungrily  on  my  cabin,  my  jacals,  my 
cattle,  my  ripening  fields.  We  might  save  ourselves,  but 
none  of  these  would  be  here  when  we  came  back. 

"Oh  hold  your  tongue,  Yappe! "  I  burst  on  him  peev- 
ishly. "No,  wait.  Saddle  enough  horses,  and  take  these 
women  and  children  with  you.  The  rest  of  us " 

"Too  late!"  shouted  old  Castleman.  "Here  comes 
the  hooray  cane  now!" 

Fifty  yelling  savages,  all  mounted  and  dripping  water, 
broke  from  the  timber.  They  were  surely  the  Caran- 
cahuas. The  harrowing  legends  had  not  been  exag- 
gerated. They  were  magnificent,  fierce,  warlike  giants, 


THE   CONSTANT  POSSIBILITY  133 

and  cannibals,  too,  if  you  wish,  and  on  they  rushed 
toward  us,  waving  their  long  bows  over  their  heads. 

"Quick  thar!"  bellowed  our  jolly  misanthrope. 

All  of  us,  Yappe,  the  Peasantry,  the  howling  tribe  of 
yellow  pickaninnies,  all  of  us  skurried  into  the  cabin. 
Old  Castleman  coolly  marshalled  our  little  force  for 
business.  He  tore  the  luxurious  newspaper  tapestry 
from  the  rifle  slits,  and  very  glad  I  was  now  for  those 
chinks.  He  shoved  Yappe  and  the  grown  Mexicans  to 
the  side  where  they  could  aim  at  the  Indians,  and  ordered 
them  to  "get  occupied  right  peert."  He  stationed  the 
old  women  and  children  to  give  us  warning  from  the 
other  directions.  Even  as  he  shouted  these  things,  he 
fired  his  long  rifle.  The  ounce  ball  must  have  scored, 
for  his  grunt  was  anything  but  pessimistic. 

The  frantic  two  minutes  of  getting  behind  shelter 
were  minutes  of  activity,  and  my  mind  had  time  for 
nothing  else.  But  when  I  looked  down  my  gun  barrel, 
and  saw  those  naked  savages  out  there  kneeling  in  the 
grass  around  us,  and  the  cruel  lean  faces  on  them  as  they 
bent  their  enormous  bows,  I  abruptly  realised  that  the 
past  three  years  in  Texas  had  not  hardened  me  to  this 
sort  of  thing  even  yet.  The  arrows  struck  the  logs  with 
such  impact,  and  quivered  so  terribly,  I  thought  surely 
they  must  crash  through  the  thick  pines. 

Our  old  cook  in  the  back  of  the  room  let  out  a 
scream  that  made  my  flesh  creep.  I  turned,  blindly 
enraged  against  her,  but  to  be  instantly  frozen  in  horror. 
An  arrow  had  passed  through  a  crack,  had  shot  across 
the  powder-smoked  room,  and  there  was  the  old  woman 
pinned  against  the  wall.  The  long  shaft  was  still 
trembling  where  it  had  fastened  near  her  shoulder.  I 
forced  myself  to  her,  while  she  gave  scream  after  scream, 
and  I  shut  my  eyes,  so  as  not  to  see  the  blood  when  it 
spouted,  and  pulled  at  the  arrow  with  both  hands.  But 


i34  THE  LONE  STAR 

the  thing  held  tight.  I  opened  my  eyes;  then  burst 
out  laughing,  hysterically.  The  old  woman  had  sunk 
half-way  to  the  floor,  and  was  hanging  from  her  rebosa, 
the  end  of  which  was  nailed  to  the  wall  by  the  arrow.  I 
caught  her  up,  and  twirled  her  round  until  the  scarf- 
like  thing  unwound  itself  from  her  neck  and  shoulders. 
Then  I  sat  her  down  on  the  floor,  and  yelled  at  her 
frenziedly  to  shut  up,  and  make  the  children  shut 
up  too. 

Accuracy  with  the  bow  like  this  was  as  deadly  as  rifle 
fire,  and  that  was  not  the  last  arrow  to  drive  in 
squarely  among  us.  More  will  than  I  could  very  well 
command  was  needed  to  put  my  head  at  a  chink,  and 
when  I  did,  I  was  seized  with  the  mania  to  hold  my  fire. 
For  it  took  so  long  to  reload,  and  during  that  time 
the  Indians  might  rush  the  door  and  find  one  help- 
less. To  hold  the  load  until  then,  and  then  to  kill  the 
particular  man  who  might  kill  you — in  other  words,  the 
ultimate  craving  of  personal  combat — this  was  the  thing, 
and  to  waste  shot  on  killing  men  in  general  seemed 
unutterable  folly. 

How  long  we  could  have  held  them  off,  no  one  may 
tell.  But  we  were  saved  at  last  through  no  effort  of  our 
own.  For  a  moment  it  looked  as  though  Jove  the 
Thunderer  had  intervened.  At  least  a  distant  volley  of 
musketry  from  the  direction  of  the  river  sounded  so. 
But  we  could  see  no  one,  no  one  but  the  Indians.  The 
Indians  themselves  pricked  up  their  ears  mighty  sharp. 
There  was  more  shooting  out  there  in  the  wide  world 
somewhere,  and  dismay  lengthened  the  painted  jaws 
of  the  savages  around  us.  Up  they  sprang,  darting 
back  to  their  ponies,  and  rode  off  like  the  wind  for  the 
hills  in  the  north.  We  flung  open  the  doors,  to  let  out 
the  smoke  and  breathe  again.  And  a  breath  of  relief 
it  was.  There  is  this  about  great  peril,  that  when  it 


THE   CONSTANT  POSSIBILITY  135 

is  over,  you  forget  that  it  is  only  a  respite  from  mor- 
tality, and  think  the  respite  permanent.  The  price  is 
not  heavy,  either,  if  for  only  a  moment  the  low-hanging 
cloud  of  mortality  seems  dispersed. 

"Ai,  a-mi-gos!  A-mi-gos!" 

The  shouting  of  many  voices  faintly  reached  our  ears. 

"Mex-kins,"  said  Castleman. 

"But  what  are  they  waiting  for?" 

"For  the  river  to  flow  by,  I  jedge.  Sounds  like  ez  if 
they're  on  th 'other  side." 

With  which  Castleman  and  I  ran  down  to  the  timber 
to  make  sure.  Drawn  up  on  the  opposite  bank,  mounted, 
armed,  and  uniformed,  were  a  hundred  dragoons. 

"Squar'd  up  like  they  was  the  real  breed,"  muttered 
Castleman.  "Mex'kin  soldiers,  an'  in  Texas,  whut  kin 
they  mean  by  it?" 

But  at  any  rate,  I  couldn't  be  anything  but  very 
thankful,  and  I  jumped  into  my  canoe  to  go  across  and 
tell  them  so.  The  misanthrope,  though,  would  not  come. 
After  his  recent  lease  on  life,  the  acid  lips  were  again 
pursed  down  tight. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  reckon  I'll  jes'  bide  on  this  side  here 
an'  see  whut  happens  fust." 

I  paddled  over,  and  was  congratulated  heartily  by 
the  captain  of  the  troop.  The  captain  was  a  friendly 
young  Mexican  with  the  eyes  of  a  doe.  His  face  was 
white  yet  from  the  recollection  of  our  late  peril.  He  had 
newly  come  to  San  Antonio  from  Mexico,  and  his 
horror  of  Indians  had  been  acquired  from  bloodcurdling 
yarns.  He  scrutinised  me  curiously  as  a  specimen  of 
that  incomprehensible  race  that  actually  defied  the 
terrible  red  men. 

"Enrique  Castonado,  capitan,  at  your  service,  cabal- 
lero,"  he  introduced  himself  in  his  own  tongue,  "and 
trusting,"  he  went  on,  never  stopping  for  breath, 


i36  THE  LONE  STAR 

"that  I  have  the  felicity  to  find  you  well,  senor.  Ai, 
the  saints  preserve  me,  how  I  do  feel  that  we  could  not 
avenge  you  on  those  barbarians!  But  take  the  trouble 
to  notice  the  river.  We  could  not  cross.  We  could 
only  hear  shooting.  Therefore  I  climbed  a  tree,  and  I 
saw.  But  what  to  do?  It  was  quite  required  by  tactics 
that  we  fire  our  carbines,  and  we  fired  them  in  the  air. 
One  volley.  Two  volleys.  Zas,  zas! — the  enemy  dis- 
persed. What  marksmanship  more  effective,  tell  me, 
senor?" 

Here  was  a  piquant  fellow  of  the  right  sort,  I  decided. 

"But,"  I  demanded,  "how  did  you  happen  this  way 
at  all?" 

"By  the  trail,  senor.  By  the  one  we  didn't  take,  be- 
cause we  missed  it  during  the  night  last  night.  But  we 
stumbled  on  a  new  one,  made  by  your  friends  the  Indians. 
We  are  going  to  Gonzales.  Perhaps  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  direct  us? 

"With  pleasure.  You  have  only  to  follow  the  river 
down  stream  for  about  thirty  miles." 

"But  Gonzales" — He  hesitated.  "But  Gonzales  is 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river." 

"Yes,  but  you  will  find  a  ferry  there." 

"Still,"  said  Captain  Castonado  rather  anxiously, 
"if  we  could  cross  now.  Isn't  that  a  flatboat  you  have 
over  there?  Perhaps  you  would  have  the  goodness " 

"Certainly,  I'll  ask  Castleman  to  bring  it  over." 

"Thank  you,  senor.  But  there — there  is  another 
thing.  You  have  firearms?" 

"Why  of  course,  or  we  would  be  tomahawked  by 
now." 

"But  do  you  not  know  that  His  Excellency's  new 
congress  has  forbidden  the  possession  of  firearms  except 
by  the  military?" 

"  H'm,  but  here  in  Texas  everybody  is  the  military." 


THE   CONSTANT  POSSIBILITY  137 

"Ah,  se/ior,  but  His  Excellency's  new  congress  has 
reduced  the  militia  to  one  person  for  every  five  hundred. 
His  Excellency  means  to  garrison  Texas  henceforth  for 
your  protection,  and" — I  give  him  credit  in  that  the 
words  came  painfully —  "and  to  enforce  the  laws." 

"You  don't  mean — Lord  no,  man,  you  are  joking!  " 

But  he  was  not.     His  distressed  manner  showed  it. 

"You  want  us  to — to  give  up  our  rifles? " 

"I  am  sorry,  senor " 


"  Mine  is  across  the  river,  in  my  cabin,  but- 


I  had  to  stop,  to  get  a  new  grip  on  the  situation.  I 
knew  within  me  that  I  would  resist,  but  how,  how?  I 
was  never  aware  before  of  the  eternal,  incarnate,  though 
often  dormant,  temper  of  my  race.  But  I  knew  it  in 
that  moment.  For  the  first  time  I  knew  that  I  was  an 
American,  in  the  essential  meaning  of  the  term.  That 
demand  to  give  up  my  arms  made  me  know.  The 
gorge  rising  within  made  me  aware. 

"  But  mebbe  ye  won't  now,  jus'  mebbe,  ye  little  pizen 
varmint." 

The  voice  rasped  to  the  marrow.  From  among  the 
dragoons  its  owner  appeared,  Lush  Yandell.  But  he 
still  kept  behind  one  of  the  horses,  for  he  knew  that 
Castleman  and  Castleman's  rifle  were  on  the  opposite 
bank.  He  levelled  his  own  rifle  across  the  mustang's 
haunches  at  my  breast,  and  his  eye  ran  along  the  barrel. 
He  had  but  one  eye.  In  the  socket  of  the  other,  on  the 
more  hairy  side  of  his  misshapen  face,  was  a  livid,  red 
slit.  I  looked  once  at  the  empty  socket,  but  I  could 
look  no  more,  though  the  impulse  to  do  so  was  fiendish. 
Neither  could  I  cry  out  to  him  not  to  shoot.  By  his  own 
lawless  code  my  life  was  his,  and  some  force  unknown 
held  me  from  asking  it  of  him.  The  cold  sweat  was  on 
my  forehead  as  I  waited  for  the  explosion  of  his  gun. 

"No,"  and  he  laughed  that  galling  laugh  that  always 


i38  THE  LONE  STAR 

got  me  into  a  murderous  state,  "no,  thet's  plenty  for 
jus'  now.  I  only  kinder  wanted  to  make  sure  o'  the 
colour  of  your  liver,  but  it  h'ain't  changed  none.  It's 
ez  dirty  white  ez  ever,  which  means,"  he  said,  cocking 
his  head  and  leering  at  me  with  his  one  eye,  "which 
means  thet  you'ull  be  too  mirac'lous  useful  to  skin  jus' 
yit.  Ye  see,  compadre,  skinnin's  like  the  bottom  swill 
in  the  jug;  it'ull  keep  to  the  last  an'  taste  better.  But 
mebbe  ye  don't  know  you  hev  been  durn  useful  already?" 

I  started  uneasily. 

"Oh,  ye  c'd  guess,  I  reckin,  'cept  thet  guessin'  is  a 
sign  o'  intelleck."  He  paused  to  chuckle  over  his  loath- 
some merriment,  while  he  knocked  his  clay  pipe  against 
the  saddle  preparatory  to  befouling  the  air  with  the 
same.  "Oh,  ye  didn't  think,  now,  when  you  was 
guzzlin'  brandy  with  the  Presidente  in  his  sumshus 
palacio,  thet  a  poor  ol'  rough-neck  like  Lush  Yandell  hed 
boosted  ye  so  high,  oh  no!  An'  ef  Santy  Ana  didn't  go 
for  to  pump  yuh  carcass  empty,  then  Santy  Ana  is  a 
wooden  Indgin.  But  he  ain't,  ur  the  devil  may  hev 
my  head  fur  a  clam  bake.  O'  course  ye  c'dn't  guess 
thet  my  jumpin'  your  claim  was  jus'  to  set  ye  on  to  askin* 
fur  favours,  ur  guess  thet  I  let  'em  know  in  Mex'co  thet 
you  was  comin'." 

"What— what  harm  did  I  do?" 

"  Bless  the  cunnin'  little  bantlin',  harm  ?  No,  ye  done 
good,  sech  ez  givin'  'em  an  excuse  to  hold  Daddy  Austin 
'tell  they  c'd  git  an  army  here." 

"You're  talking  too  much,  Yandell,  for  a  spy.  Don't 
you  know  Santa  Ana  is  still  promising  all  we  want?" 

"Not  now  he  ain't.  He's  sent  five  hundred  men  to 
San  'tone  already,  an'  more  comin'." 

"These  dragoons  are  some  of  them  then?" 

"Yes,  an'  I  lost  the  trail  fur  'em,  ez  I  wanted  to  stop 
by  here  fur  to  get  thet  shotgun;  you  know,  the  one  thet 


THE   CONSTANT  POSSIBILITY  139 

spits  birdshot. Oh,  thet  was  monstrous  cute  o'  you, 

compadre,  basting  out  my  eye. An' then,  ez  they  might 

object  down  at  Gonzales  to  our  usin'  their  ferry,  I 
thought  we'd  better  cross  here,  knowin'  ye  hed  thet 
old  scow,  so,"  and  he  levelled  his  rifle  on  me  again,  "so 
s'pose  ye  jus'  call  to  ol'  Jack  Castleman,  an'  ast  him  to 
fotch  it  over.  But  be  keerful,"  he  added,  "be  dam' 
keerful  what  ye  say." 

I  decided  to  trust  to  Castleman.  Some  instinctive 
caution  had  kept  him  on  the  other  side,  and  a  like 
caution  should  make  him  divine  my  predicament.  If 
not,  then  it  would  be  time  enough  to  provoke  Yandell's 
menacing  rifle.  So  I  called  to  Castleman  to  bring  over 
the  scow;  then  waited,  as  for  a  sentence  of  death. 

"A-w,"  growled  the  old  backwoodsman,  and  in 
Spanish,  too,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Mexicans,  "she's  too 
big  for  one  man,  an'  too  much  current,  ki-ramba!" 

The  click  of  a  rifle  being  cocked  struck  my  ears. 

" Tell  him,"  said  Yandell,  "thet  ef  he  don't,  you're 
a  dead  un." 

But  the  generous  young  Mexican  captain,  all  along 
impatient  of  the  fellow's  bullying,  had  had  enough. 
With  his  sabre  he  knocked  up  the  rifle. 

"The  senor  across  there  is  perfectly  right,"  he  said. 
"Therefore  Senor  Reeply  will  have  to  help  him.  But," 
he  added,  "  I  will  go  too.  His  canoe  will  hold  us  both." 

Yandell  scowled,  but  had  to  content  himself  with 
promising  to  hold  a  bead  on  me  until  we  delivered  the 
scow. 

Captain  Castonado  placed  himself  in  the  stern  of  the 
canoe,  and  I  took  the  paddle.  I  worked  slowly,  for  I 
had  to  do  some  thinking.  I  thought  first  of  upsetting 
the  canoe.  But  that  would  be  foolish.  The  Mexicans 
would  then  drive  Castleman  to  shelter  with  their  rifles, 
while  two  or  three  of  them  swam  across  for  the  scow. 


1 40  THE  LONE  STAR 

I  looked  ahead  and  saw  Castleman  baling  it  out, 
apparently,  as  every  now  and  then  he  emptied  a  gourd 
of  water  over  the  side.  I  did  not  know  that  the  old  flat- 
boat  leaked  so  much.  But  at  last  the  canoe  bumped 
into  it,  and  I  had  decided  nothing.  Castleman 
untied  the  rope  of  the  barge,  and  poised  himself  on  the 
gunwale,  ready  to  give  possession.  He  had  not  divined 
the  trouble  after  all,  it  seemed.  I  stepped  from  the 
canoe  into  the  scow,  too  frantic  with  chagrin  to  notice 
that  the  water  covered  my  ankles.  Captain  Castonado 
followed,  smiling  affably  over  the  success  of  his  plan. 
He  stooped  for  one  of  the  oars.  And  then  everything 
in  me  came  to  a  head  all  at  once.  "Senor!"  I  screamed, 
for  I  could  not  do  it  while  his  back  was  turned,  and  when 
he  faced  me,  I  struck  him  full  on  the  chin,  and  over 
he  went  into  the  water.  The  Lord  help  me,  it  was 
cruel  return  on  one  who  had  just  saved  us  from  Indians. 
But  I  was  beginning  to  learn  that  life,  unlike  life 
in  books,  is  not  simple  at  all;  which  makes  it  hard 
and  requires  a  man  to  decide  for  the  right  course  out  of 
the  maze. 

"Good!"  cried  Castleman.  "Good  an'  clean!  Now 
jump!" 

Yandell's  slug-shot  cut  close  over  us  as  we  both  leaped 
to  the  bank,  and  fell  on  our  faces.  The  dragoons  fired 
wildly,  spattering  mud  over  us.  A  horny  hand  caught 
mine,  and  half  dragged  me  as  I  squirmed  into  the  thick 
bushes. 

"Thar  now  sonny,"  said  Castleman,  "jes'  keep  to 
kiver,  an'  we'll  make  it  away  frum  here  through  the 
timber." 

"But  the  scow?  They'll  get  the  scow!" 

Castleman  glanced  back  at  the  river. 

"I  don't  seem  to  see  no  scow,"  he  observed. 

I  did,  for  an  instant  only,  as  she  sank.     He  had  pulled 


THE   CONSTANT  POSSIBILITY  141 

the  plugs  out  of  the  bottom,  and  the  force  of  our  leap 
had  shoved  her  into  deep  water. 

"I  fergot  that  Mex'kin,  though,"  he  cried,  bringing 
his  rifle  to  aim.  I  knocked  it  up  with  my  hand,  and  the 
shot  went  high  just  as  the  dripping  Captain  Castonado 
climbed  into  the  canoe.  I  watched  him  paddle  back  to 
his  dragoons  before  the  raging  misanthrope  at  my  side 
could  reload. 

"What  a  jelly-hearted  baby  you  air!"  he  roared. 
"Now  they  got  the  canoe,  an'  they'ull  git  over  here  one 
by  one  an'  burn  yo'  ranch,  'thout  we  stay  here  all  night 
to  take  pot  shots  at  'em." 

"No  danger,"  I  said.  "They're  starting  for  Gonzales 
now." 

"Gonzales?  Whut'd  they  do  thar?" 

"How  do  I  know?  But  that's  where  they'll  find  a 
ferry." 

"Then,"  said  Castleman,  again  taking  one  of  his  rare 
cheerful  views  of  the  universe,  "we'ull  hev  to  git  thar 
fust.  The  boys  might  be  interested  down  thar  at 
Gonzales." 

Interested?  Well,  of  course  we  didn't  know  then  that 
my  doubled  fist  had  struck  the  first  blow  of  a  War. 


CHAPTER  XV 

PAUL    REVERE 

JACK  CASTLEMAN  and  I  hit  a  good  planter's  pace, 
and  as  the  dragoons  on  the  other  side  of  the  river 
had  no  trail,  we  were  certain  to  outstrip  them.  We 
roused  Val  Bennet  on  the  way,  but  did  not  wait,  and  it 
was  yet  black  dark  when  we  galloped  like  a  brace  of  Dick 
Turpins  among  the  log  houses  and  spreading  trees  of 
Gonzales. 

"Hi  thar,  Al!"  bellowed  Castleman,  swerving  his 
mustang  alongside  Martin's  door.  He  pulled  the 
latch  string,  pounded  the  door  open  with  the  butt  of  his 
rifle,  ducked  flat  to  the  saddle,  and  in  he  rode.  "Hi 
thar,  storekeep,  here  air  customers!" 

The  dumpy  merchant  appeared  from  his  back  room, 
half-dressed  and  half-asleep,  a  candle  in  one  hand,  a 
musket  in  the  other,  and  trying  to  rub  his  eyes  with 
both.  The  rat-tat-tat  of  the  mustang's  hoofs  on  the 
floor  made  a  terrific  din. 

"How  yuh,  Jack?"  said  Martin.  "But  have  a  cheer. 
Make  yourself  more  comfortable.  And  young  Rip  too! 
Howdy,  Rip.  But  where 's  your  hawse?  Ain't  you 
afraid  he'll  cotch  cold,  leaving  him  outside?" 

"Now,"  said  Castleman,  "jes*  git  them  peepers  un- 
sewed,  an'  tell  us  which  side  the  ferry's  on." 

"Then  they're  coming,  eh?  Then  they're  coming?" 

"Air  who  comin'?" 

"Oh  I  dunno,"  said  Martin,  "if  you  don't.  But  we 
kind  o'  been  looking  for  visitors  ever  since  his  lordship 
sent  around  the  other  day  to  fetch  our  six-pounder,  our 
beloved  Last  Argument  of  Nations,  sir." 

142 


PAUL  REVERE  143 


"An*  bein'  es  you  like  argymint  so  well " 

"Of  course  we  didn't  give  it  up,  Jack,  but  we  thought 
his  lordship'd  be  sending  another  messenger." 

"  A  hund'erd,  Al!  A  hund'erd  draggins,  with  carbines." 

"And  here's  three  of  us — no,  five,  for  Major  Kerr  and 
Byrd  Lockhart  are  over  at  Zeke's,  Zeke  being  gone  down 
the  river — five  at  least." 

A  hundred  dragoons,  and  five  of  us!  But  compliance 
never  entered  anybody's  head.  Al  Martin,  puffing 
gradually  more  and  more  with  indignation  at  thought 
of  giving  up  our  municipal  pride  and  oratorical  accessory, 
puffed  his  way  out  into  the  gray  dawn  to  rouse  the  town, 
while  Castleman  and  I  hastened  to  the  river,  and  brought 
the  ferry  and  all  other  boats  to  our  side  of  the  river,  as 
well  as  what  settlers  there  were  on  the  other  side.  Bennet 
rode  in  meantime,  bringing  Old  Paint  Cal dwell  and  Dan 
McCoy,  and  with  George  Cottle  and  John  Sowell  the 
blacksmith  we  now  had  eighteen  men  altogether.  They 
were  used  to  organising  against  Indians,  but  being  only 
against  Mexicans  this  time,  they  were  light  hearted  about 
it.  Of  course  Al  Martin,  his  coonskin  vest  buttoned 
awry,  could  not  miss  the  chance  for  a  speech.  There 
was  the  Tyrant  who  allowed  to  disarm  us  ere  riveting  on 
the  Shackles,  there  was  the  Injustice  that  gnawed,  and 
a  phrase  or  two  more  preliminary  to  getting  up  steam, 
when  Val  Bennet  sidetracked  him. 

"Oh  now,  Al,  don't  be  harsh,  and  we'll  elect  you 
captain." 

And  this  we  did,  on  condition  that  the  speech  hold 
over  till  Sunday.  The  soft-voiced,  big  Major  Kerr 
looked  on  in  a  fatherly  way,  and  guessed  he'd  be 
a  private.  Val  was  for  putting  us  through  a  drill  at 
once.  Since  his  getting  shot  up  in  the  Velasco  fight 
three  years  before,  everybody  regarded  him  as  quite  a 
Hannibal,  and  he  accepted  the  r61e  good-humouredly. 


I44  THE  LONE  STAR 

"But  first,"  he  said,  "the  Army  of  the  People  ought 
to  meet  as  a  strategic  board  of  the  whole  and  find  out 
our  vulnerable  point." 

"Ain't  got  none,"  drawled  Paint  Caldwell. 

"Yet, "said  Major  Kerr,  "you're  overlooking  the  ford." 

To  the  ford  accordingly,  a  half-mile  below  the  town, 
we  hurried,  and  with  us  we  dragged  the  "Last  Argu- 
ment." We  must  have  it  convenient  for  them,  as  Cap- 
tain Martin  observed,  when  they  should  get  across  to 
take  it.  "But,"  he  added,  "I  hope  the  next  time  the 
Mexicans  give  us  a  cannon,  they'll  throw  in  some  balls  for 
good  measure."  Blacksmith  Sowell,  however,  came  with 
his  apron  full  of  slugs,  and  we  loaded  her  up  with  them, 
and  pointed  her  ready  for  business  at  the  opposite  bank. 

"I  say,  you  patriots,"  panted  our  dumpy  chief,  lean- 
ing on  the  ramrod,  "let's  make  this  here  a  regular 
Lexington  o'  Texas.  I'd  say  Bunker  Hill,  only  we 
ain't  got  any  hill." 

Levity,  though,  was  a  foil  only.  Those  eighteen  men 
with  their  obstinacy  over  an  old  brass  cannon — the 
metal  casting  of  their  principles  and  manhood — were 
about  to  bring  down  on  Texas  the  power  of  eight  millions 
of  people.  Had  the  matter  been  less  grave,  they  could 
have  been  more  serious. 

Then,  across  the  river,  we  saw  the  dragoons.  They 
came  at  a  trot,  straight  to  the  ford.  Yandell  was  no 
longer  with  them,  for  Yandell's  own  good  private  rea- 
sons, but  he  had  advised  them  minutely.  They  splashed 
into  the  water,  Captain  Castonado  making  a  gallant 
figure  at  their  head.  Our  own 'captain  ran  down  to  the 
water's  edge  and  waved  his  arms  ferociously. 

"Hey  there,  stop!"  he  yelled. 

"Tell  'em,"  said  Caldwell  in  his  languorous  Tennessee, 
"that  hit's  a  middlin'  dang'rous  crossin'  jes'  at  present." 

It  had  already  been  voted  that  my  wretched  Spanish 


PAUL  REVERE  145 

was  the  best  among  us,  so  I  was  to  do  the  parleying. 
Now  what  was  very  curious,  I  did  not  connect  Mexicans 
with  terror  in  the  least.  After  the  Indians  of  yesterday, 
it  was  a  relief  to  meet  these  new  foes,  and  before  I  quite 
knew  what  I  was  at,  I  had  ridden  my  horse  out  into  the 
river  up  to  his  belly,  and  was  holding  up  my  hand  to 
Castonado  to  halt  him. 

"Ho,  Senor  Americano,"  he  called  in  greeting,  "my 
compliments,  and  a  thousand  thanks  for  the  bath  of 
yesterday.  Thank  you  too,"  he  added  earnestly,  "for 
knocking  up  that  old  man's  rifle.  If  we  fight,  we  are 
friends,  eh?" 

I  nodded  "Yes"  to  his  amiable  paradox,  then  repeated 
what  Major  Kerr  had  told  me  to  say.  Captain  Castonado 
was  to  do  us  the  favour  to  keep  himself  and  his  dragoons 
on  his  own  side  of  the  river. 

"  But  why,  senor?"  He  was  rather  puzzled.  Being  new 
to  Texas  and  Texans,  he  did  not  connect  the  lounging 
little  group  of  settlers  on  the  bank  with  armed  resistance. 
"Why,  senor?" 

I  jerked  my  thumb  backward  over  my  shoulder  at 
that  same  little  group.  Sixteen  rifles  were  levelled  on 
the  dragoons,  and  Val  Bennet  with  a  lighted  cigarette 
stood  beside  the  cannon.  I  wondered  why  the  hundred 
dragoons  did  not  charge,  but  a  little  thing  called  the 
personal  equation  was  an  unknown  quantity  to  me  at 
that  time.  Given  the  requisite  difference  in  men, 
eighteen  can  weigh  against  a  hundred.  Captain  Caston- 
ado stared  at  the  levelled  rifles,  and  he  was  unable  to 
credit  his  senses.  He  flushed  angrily,  and  next  he 
wavered. 

"But  tell  them,"  he  protested,  "that  I  have  only 
come  for  that  cannon." 

"No  use,"  I  replied,  "they  can't  give  you  an  answer 
until  our  alcalde  gets  back." 


1 46  THE  LONE  STAR 

"But  senor,  senor,  I  must  not  wait.  My  orders  come 
indirectly  from  the  President  himself." 

"Then  tell  your  president" — It  was  Al  Martin, 
fuming,  splashing  waist  deep  to  my  side. — "Tell  him," 
he  roared,  angrily  drawing  a  bead  on  Castonado,  "to 
come  on  and  take  his  cannon,  if  he's  in  such  a  sweat  for 
it!" 

Captain  Castonado  looked  vacantly  into  the  muzzle 
of  the  rifle.  His  expression  took  on  life  by  degrees. 
At  last  he  brought  his  sabre  hilt  to  his  chin  at  salute. 
"There  is  no  hurry,  senores,"  he  said.  He  wheeled  as 
at  the  order  of  a  superior  officer,  and  cantered  back  out 
of  gun  range  with  his  dragoons. 

"Now  then,"  said  Martin,  when  he  had  splashed  back 
with  me  to  our  own  side,  "we've  got  to  scare  up  more 
men  befoie  His  Castanets — what's  that  captain's  name? 
— gets  tired  waiting.  Paul  Revere!  Paul  Revere!  Who's 
to  make  the  race?  Who's  to  ask  the  Texians  to  decide 
for  rights  and  liberties,  to  answer  by  the  mouths  of 
their  rifles?  Come  forward,  Paul  Revere!  Speak  up, 
who?" 

Nobody  volunteered.  All  of  us  wanted  to  stay 
behind  and  see  the  fun.  In  vain  did  Captain  Martin 
order  first  one  and  then  another  on  the  errand.  They 
only  laughed  at  him,  told  him  to  go  himself.  We  were 
a  mutinous  crew,  altogether.  Then  they  hit  on  me  by 
common  consent,  because  I  was  the  easiest  bullied,  no 
doubt,  and  when  I  tried  to  make  excuses,  as  they  had 
done,  they  talked  gruff  and  told  me  not  to  be  peevish. 

"I  know whut 'tis,"  said  Jack  Castleman,  letting  out 
a  stream  of  tobacco  juice  to  make  way  for  the  inspiration, 
"it's  the  Reddies.  Sonny's  a  bit  skeered." 

"Oh  well,  then,"  drawled  Caldwell  plaintively,  "I 
reckon  we'll  hev  to  pick  on  someun  else." 

"Hang  it,"  I  cried,  "I'll " 


PAUL  REVERE  147 

"Wait,"  said  Major  Kerr  gently,  "because  the  man 
that  does  go  will  have  to  keep  on  to  San  Felipe.  This 
business  isn't  going  to  end  here,  and  we  can't  get  along 
without  Mr.  Austin." 

"Mr.  Austin?"  I  exclaimed.  "Do  you  mean  that  he's 
back  in  Texas?" 

"Yes,  they  let  him  loose,  not  needing  him  any  more 
for  a  hostage." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "I'll  go.     I  want  to  see  Mr.  Austin." 

In  the  saddle,  with  spurs  lifted  for  flight,  I  had  to 
shake  hands  all  round.  I  had  not  imagined  that  they 
cared. 

"Just  keep  the  trail,"  said  one,  "till  you  hit  the 
Colorado." 

"An*  sonny,"  said  my  old  pessimist,  "ef  you  sure 
want  to  find  them  Reddies,  you'ull  hev  to  circle  roun' 
to  them  hills  nawth,  an'  cut  fast  et  that,  fer  they  wa'n't 
goin'  very  slow  when  we  saw  'em  last." 

So  I  was  off,  a  messenger  of  War,  rousing  the  clans. 
My  fleet  Boreas  seemed  to  skim  the  ground,  and  the  air 
of  the  prairie  whistled  past  my  ears.  Now  to  take  up 
the  game  with  our  old  friend  of  bland  words,  of  subtle 
incense,  he  of  the  superlative  Excellency!  He  had  been 
playing  for  Texas  all  the  time,  tricking  us  with  promises 
until  he  was  ready  to  drive  us  out.  Well,  let  Texas  be 
the  stake  then,  our  homes,  and  the  home  of  our  race 
henceforth! 

But  who  was  there  to  pit  against  this  consummate 
Lucifer  who  had  schemed  so  craftily?  I  was  being  sent 
to  Mr.  Austin  first  of  all.  We  looked  to  him  as  to  a 
tribal  patriarch.  But  Mr.  Austin,  with  "patience  to 
make  any  adversity  ashamed,"  was  too  simple-hearted 
and  as  trusting  as  he  was  himself  worthy  of  trust.  He 
could  never  fathom  and  forestall  the  devil's  own  cunning 
against  us.  We  needed  a  greater  man  here,  a  man  as  good 


i48  THE  LONE  STAR 

and  honest,  but  also  with  the  intellect  of  Lucifer.  Three 
years  ago  the  settlers  had  felt,  instinctively,  the  need  of 
such  a  man,  and  they  had  sent  for — Drunken  Sam!  I 
could  picture  now  the  rage,  the  theatric  majesty,  in 
Houston's  splendid  eyes.  But  it  was  a  rage  that  would 
strike  bravely.  It  would  strike  craftily,  too.  He  had 
already  looked  as  far  ahead  as  Santa  Ana  himself.  Three 
years  ago  he  had  seen  the  game  to  be  played,  and  on  it 
he  had  staked  his  future,  his  hope  of  regenerate  leader- 
ship and  manhood.  Yes,  yes,  he  was  our  man,  and  the 
thought  of  the  two  colossal  antagonists  thrilled  me  as 
nothing  in  books  and  imagination  had  ever  done.  Here 
were  Saxon  force  and  Latin  guile,  the  Old  World  conflict 
over  again ;  yet  with  a  new  element  of  conflict  added  on 
either  side,  that  of  the  subtle  Indian.  Beside  a  struggle 
like  this,  my  poor  old  " Iliad"  was  only  discredited  opera 
bouffe.  Thus  my  fancies  raced  neck  and  neck  with 
swift  Boreas.  But  most  of  all  the  dramatic  sense  exacted 
that  these  two  men  should  meet,  that  they  should  come 
face  to  face  in  the  supreme  climax,  and  then  what  an 
encounter  we  should  have! 

My  hair  tingled  to  the  roots  as  I  galloped  over  the 
black  rolling  country,  mid  grass  that  looked  like  ordered 
fields  of  ripening  grain.  A  half-dozen  words  at  each  log 
cabin,  and  there  was  yet  another  man-at-arms,  mounted 
and  grim,  and  gleeful  too,  flying  back  to  join  the  Eight- 
een. I  the  clarion,  the  tocsin  only,  seemed  to  wield 
a  magic  power.  It  was  the  rousing  of  a  people  to  arms, 
the  genesis  of  serried  ranks.  Texas,  like  Achilles,  was 
arming.  To  be  only  the  Boy  of  the  Errand,  that  was 
enough  to  turn  a  youngster's  head,  and  as  I  say,  my  hair 
tingled  to  the  roots.  If  my  father,  my  mother,  could 
behold  me  racing  so  gloriously!  If  they  could  see  my 
gesture  of  a  hero,  or  hear  my  voice,  calling  to  all  Texas 
that  we,  the  Eighteen,  had  drawn  the  deadline  back 


'  I  was  the  firebrand,  lighting  the  blaze  to  sweep  the  wilderness" 


PAUL  REVERB  149 

there  on  the  Guadalupe,  that  there  we  had  bade  Mexico 
come  no  farther!  I  was  the  firebrand,  lighting  the  blaze 
to  sweep  the  wilderness.  And  if  that  little  firebrand  of 
a  Nan  Buckalew,  if  she — but  just  there  a  wee  pinch  of 
sanity  checked  me.  Still,  I  smiled  patronisingly.  I 
could  feel  kindly  toward  her,  now.  But  was  it  not  odd 
that  in  such  exaltation  I  should  remember  the  little 
wildcat  at  all? 

At  Major  Kerr's  ranch  on  the  Lavaca  I  hurried  his 
Negroes  to  the  settlements  north  and  south  with  the 
news,  as  he  had  told  me  to,  then  changed  horses  after  a 
bite  to  eat,  and  was  off  again.  I  spent  the  night  in 
Bastrop,  on  the  Colorado,  at  big  John  Moore's  house. 
John  Moore  was  a  stout  Indian  fighter,  and  he  started 
full  speed  the  same  night  for  Gonzales,  taking  every  man 
for  miles  around.  There  they  elected  him  colonel. 

Another  day  of  hard  riding,  and  I  gained  the  richly 
golden  wild  rye  of  the  Brazos  bottoms,  where  it  flour- 
ished in  the  shade  of  live-oaks.  I  climbed  the  prairie 
bluff  a  little  farther  on,  and  drew  rein  in  San  Felipe. 
Again  the  same  splendid  story.  Men  were  galvanised 
at  a  word  into  grim  centaurs.  They  were  assembling 
already  to  march  to  the  coast  and  intercept  the  Mexicans, 
but  at  my  news  they  started  at  once  for  Gonzales.  They 
were  more  lustful  than  any  yet  for  the  fight.  These 
men  were  mad  clear  through.  That's  it — mad!  Mr. 
Austin  was  among  them  again,  but  broken,  and  suddenly 
aged,  and  the  wan  lines  of  suffering  put  in  his  settlers 
an  anger  abiding  and  implacable.  They  only  wanted  to 
know  where  to  strike,  and  now  they  knew. 

Mr.  Austin  astounded  me  by  laying  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  and  saying  that  I  was  a  Texan  indeed.  He 
could  think,  he  said,  of  no  higher  compliment.  But  I 
was  fagged  out,  he  went  on,  and  after  all  I  had  done 
already,  I  must  on  no  account  think  of  starting  back 


1 5o  THE  LONE  STAR 

that  night  with  his  men.  He  was  unable  to  go  at  once, 
and  I  must  stay  with  him. 

I  could  not  bear  that  he  should  think  of  me  being 
tired,  while  my  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  sight  of  him. 
His  haggard  face,  the  gentle  resignation  there,  the  con- 
stant worry  for  his  people,  touched  me  to  the  quick. 

"Oh  don't  you  know,  sir,"  I  cried,  "that  the  kind  of 
Texan  I've  been  was  to  deprive  Texas  of  yourself  during 
the  past  two  years? " 

He  stared  at  me  without  comprehending. 

"  I  did,  I  did!  Almonte  wheedled  it  out  of  me." 

"Bless  us,  wheedled  what?" 

"Why,  about  your  letter.  And  then  they  threw  you 
in  prison." 

"Oh,  is  that  it!"  and  he  laughed  blessed  relief  to  my 
soul.  "Why,  my  boy,  the  fault  was  mine,  for  writing 
such  a  letter.  Of  course  they  would  arrest  me  for 
expressing  my  opinions.  But  the  ayuntamiento  at  San 
Antonio  sent  back  a  certified  copy.  Neither  Almonte 
or  what  you  told  him  made  the  least  difference." 

"It  might  have,  though." 

"Well,  as  to  that,  we've  both  been  tricked  by  too 
much  faith  in  our  fellow  men.  But  now  we  are  all  going 
ahead  with  our  eyes  open.  We  are  going  to  organise 
as  a  state,  and  the  committees  of  safety  have  just 
issued  a  call  for  the  convention.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  take  this  call  east  for  us ;  say  as  far  as  Nacog- 
doches?" 

"And  miss  the  fight  at  Gonzales?" 

Mr.  Austin  smiled  tolerantly.  "You  see,  Harry," 
he  said,  "we  simply  must  have  a  government  of  some 
sort.  Why,  we  haven't  even  our  old  pet  aversion,  the 
Coahuila  legislature,  any  more.  Santa  Ana  has  abol- 
ished legislatures,  congresses,  and  constitutions;  every- 
thing, except  Santa  Ana." 


PAUL  REVERE  151 

"Then,"  I  exclaimed,  "all  of  Mexico  ought  to  be 
with  us  against  him!" 

"Only  at  Zacatecas,  but  Santa  Ana  defeated  the 
governor  there,  and  for  three  days  his  army  murdered 
the  citizens.  It's  the  same  army  that's  marching  into 
Texas  now."  . 

"And  Santa  Ana  too? " 

"Not  yet  perhaps,  but  his  father-in-law,  the  Perfect 
Cuss,  is." 

"The  what?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Austin,  "to  be  exact,  he  does  sign 
himself  General  Martin  Perfecto  de  Cos,  but  our  boys 
have  adopted  the  other  as  a  fair  translation.  Now 
back  to  the  point.  Texas  alone  must  head  the  resistance 
for  the  rest  of  Mexico." 

"Yet  there's  the  vice-president,  sir,  Gomez  Farias?" 

"He  is  banished." 

"And  Lorenzo  Zavala?" 

"Zavala  is  in  Texas,  a  fugitive.  General  Cos  swears 
he  will  march  here  and  take  him  if  we  do  not  give  him 
up  along  with  others  on  the  proscribed  list.  That 
reminds  me,  Harry,  a  particular  friend  of  yours  is  on 
this  same  list." 

"Who,  sir,  who?" 

"You  know,  that  gentle  old  war-horse  over  at  Nacog- 
doches,  what's  his  name?" 

"Not— not  Mr.  Buckalew?" 

"The  very  man,  but  why  Santa  Ana  should  have  any- 
thing against  him,  I  can't  understand." 

But  I  knew.  Santa  Ana  never  would  have  remem- 
bered Buckalew's  existence  had  I  not  blurted  it  out 
during  that  cursed  night  of  incense  and  flattery  in  the 
palacio.  To  his  public  policy  of  gathering  in  dangerous 
leaders,  the  insatiate  despot  had  added  out  of  wounded 
private  vanity  the  name  of  a  harmless  old  gossip.  The 


i52  THE  LONE  STAR 

Napoleon  of  the  West  had  sedulously  nursed  his  for- 
midable reputation  for  bravery,  and  he  could  not  endure 
that  anyone  should  live  who  told  the  story  of  the  Battle 
on  the  Medina.  The  utter  cruelty  of  the  man  showed 
itself  in  this  petty  vindictive  spirit  more  than  in  the 
wanton  slaughter  at  Zacatecas.  But  the  worst  of  it 
was,  that  I  was  the  cause.  I  had  been  used  again, 
thanks  to  the  gloating  Lush  Yandell.  And  this  time 
it  was  Nan's  father  who  .  .  . 

"But  Mr.  Austin,"  I  demanded,  "Mr.  Buckalew  has 
been  warned,  hasn't  he? " 

"Not  yet,  Harry.  This  infamous  list  only  reached 
me  to-day." 

"Then  let  me  take  that  call  for  the  convention.  I'm 
off  for  Nacogdoches,  sir." 

"You  start  bright  and  early  in  the  morning,  eh?" 

"No,  sir,  to-night.  I'd  only  lose  time,  for  I  couldn't 
sleep." 

He  protested  that  I  should  stay,  but  I  had  to  benumb 
my  thoughts  and  to  keep  moving  until  I  dropped 
was  the  only  opiate.  All  that  night  and  the  next 
day  I  rode,  rode  like  a  hunted  murderer,  eastward, 
steadily  eastward,  toward  Nacogdoches.  I  no  longer 
felt  patronising,  and  I  hoped  in  shame  and  dread  that  I 
might  not  have  to  see  Nan  Buckalew.  I  cringed  at 
thought  of  her  scorn. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE    MAN'S    PHASE    OP    TREMBLING 

THE  last  long  stage  of  that  long,  long  ride  from  the 
Guadalupe  to  the  Redlands  seems  like  a  brisk 
harrowing  little  jaunt  to  me  now.  The  eye  was  filled, 
the  mind  busy,  the  emotions  at  sharp  tension.  The 
broad  swell  of  prairie  that  was  the  Earth's  very  bosom, 
the  wide  rivers  and  timbered  bottoms,  the  canebrakes 
like  skeleton  forests,  the  vague  longing  in  the  sunsets,  the 
dazzling  hope  in  the  sun's  rising,  these  would  have  been 
a  surfeit  of  grandeur,  cloying  the  hours  with  magnifi- 
cence. But  greater  than  these  was  the  insignificant 
thing  among  them,  a  man.  A  man,  we  will  say,  uncouth 
in  garb  of  deerskin,  unkempt  of  hair  and  beard,  his  feet 
sockless  in  rawhide  brogans,  astride  a  vicious  little 
mustang,  a  long  rifle  across  his  saddle-bow,  an  ugly 
rigidity  to  his  mouth,  a  buoyant  gleam  in  his  steely  eyes, 
and  speeding  westward,  westward  to  the  Guadalupe. 
It  was  the  man  that  quickened  the  minutes.  He  was 
a  regiment  of  himself.  I  passed  many  like  him,  and 
each  was  speeding  westward,  westward  to  the  Guada- 
lupe. My  news  had  ravaged  ahead  of  me  like  wildfire. 
These  men  were  leaving  their  families  behind.  They 
knew  that  the  Indians  lurked  between  their  cabins  and 
the  northern  frontier.  They  knew  the  hideous  possi- 
bility which  does  not  require  the  naked  words.  More 
and  more  I  marvelled  at  this  race  of  men.  I  had  to  take 
myself  by  the  collar  to  remember  that  I  was  of  the  same 
race. 

In  the  Redlands,  where  the  wild  spirit  of  the  Neutral 


154  THE  LONE  STAR 

Ground  still  prevailed,  it  was  as  I  should  have  expected. 
Though  the  farthest  from  the  scene  of  hostilities,  the 
Redlanders  were  already  girded  to  fighting  trim.  At 
Nacogdoches,  at  San  Augustine,  and  up  and  down  the 
Angelina,  they  had  banded  together.  Their  commander- 
in-chief  was  Sam  Houston,  the  reddest  Redlander  of  them 
all.  But  they  had  shown  a  restraint  incredible,  for 
Redlanders.  I  mean  that  they  had  not  come  out  for 
independence.  This  had  required  a  magician's  ascen- 
dancy over  them.  It  was  a  stroke  of  cunning,  too, 
worthy  of  Santa  Ana  himself.  For  Houston  knew  well 
enough  that  Santa  Ana  would  force  them  later,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  to  declare  for  independence.  Here 
was  his  filibuster's  alibi,  and  it  was  guile  superb.  It 
was  finesse  that  made  one  sorry  for  His  Excellency  of 
the  superlative  degree. 

Another  coup  revealed  the  master  craftsman.  Hous- 
ton had  gone  among  the  Indians.  They  trusted  him, 
and  he  set  at  naught  the  insidious  promptings  of  Mexican 
agents.  He  made  safe  our  frontier  on  the  rear  while 
settlers  hastened  hundreds  of  miles  to  the  front. 

These  things  I  learned  as  I  rode,  for  my  quest,  of  course, 
was  the  proscribed  Buckalew.  I  think,  though,  that 
I  asked  first  about  Nan.  She  was  still  at  boarding-school 
in  Natchez,  they  told  me  greatly  to  my  relief,  but  they 
rather  reckoned  that  she  had  started  home,  having 
learned  all  she  wanted. 

"And  Old  Man  Buckalew?" 

"Nan's  father?  Why,  he's  gone  to  meet  her.  She's 
coming  by  water  from  New  Awluns,  and  the  Old  Man 
set  out  for  the  coast  soon's  he  heard  this  General  Cos 
was  coming  too.  Buck  was  skeered  they  might  run 
into  one  'nuther,  I  s'pose.  Wanted  to  do  the  Perfect 
Cuss  a  good  turn  and  head  Nan  off." 

"But  where  was  she  to  land?" 


THE  MAN'S  PHASE  OF  TREMBLING      155 

"Dunno,  'thout  it's  Matagorda." 

Now  Matagorda  was  where  Cos  had  landed.  Bucka- 
lew  perhaps  had  walked  squarely  into  the  clutches  of 
the  Mexican  general.  But  if  he  had  not,  I  might  save 
him  yet. 

"Or  mebbe,"  shouted  my  informant  as  I  darted  off, 
"it  was  Copano." 

"Don't  you  know?"  I  cried. 

"Not  likely,  being  as  the  Old  Man  didn't  himself. 
Might  even  'a'  been  Velasco,  or,"  he  yelled  after  me, 
"or  Anahuac." 

Or  there  a  few  hundred  miles,  or  over  there  a  hundred 
miles  farther!  It  was  a  cheerful  game  of  tag  for  a  man's 
life,  a  fitting  Texas  game.  But  I  headed  south,  and 
after  a  time  reached  the  mud  town  of  Anahuac  on 
Galveston  Bay,  yet  only  to  learn  that  no  New  Orleans 
ship  had  been  in  there  for  weeks.  Here  I  learned  the 
latest  news  from  Gonzales.  Our  Eighteen  there  had 
multiplied  tenfold  within  a  day  or  so,  and  then  Casto- 
nado  was  informed,  by  a  big  painted  sign  on  the  cannon, 
that  he  might  come  and  get  it.  He  decided  to  wait 
for  reinforcements.  But  the  Texans  hated  to  miss 
a  fight  after  coming  so  far,  so  they  crossed  over.  The 
Mexicans  waited  long  enough  to  lose  four  men, 
then  took  wing  for  San  Antonio.  On  the  way  they  met 
five  hundred  more  dragoons  sent  to  aid  them,  but  these 
turned  back  also,  and  left  Al  Martin  his  beloved  Last 
Argument. 

During  the  day  I  crossed  the  Bay  to  Galveston,  and 
put  up  for  the  night  at  an  old  stranded  steamboat  made 
into  a  tavern.  The  next  morning  I  boarded  a  coasting 
vessel,  and  after  dodging  the  Mexican  "revenue  collect- 
ing" privateers,  we  anchored  at  Velasco.  But  there  was 
nothing  to  be  learned  at  Velasco,  nor  at  Matagorda 
either,  except  that  the  settlers  were  organising  for  an 


i  S6  THE  LONE  STAR 

attack  on  Goliad.  At  last,  at  Copano,  I  had  news  of 
Buckalew.  He  had  met  a  boat  at  this  port  from  New 
Orleans,  and  he  and  a  young  lady  passenger  on  the  boat 
had  gone  on  to  Goliad.  But  to  Goliad,  of  all  places! 
Goliad  was  alive  with  Mexicans,  the  town,  the  fort,  the 
mission.  Buckalew  must  be  out  of  his  senses.  Then 
who  was  the  young  lady  passenger?  Oh  yes,  Nan,  of 
course!  She  had  availed  herself,  no  doubt,  of  her  right 
to  grow  some  during  the  past  three  years.  And  would 
Santa  Ana  have  a  proscribed  list  for  her  too?  He  had 
been  interested  in  her,  I  remembered,  and  a  clammy 
sort  of  a  recollection  it  was.  And  now  she  was  in  Goliad. 
So  direct  on  Goliad  I  turned  my  horse's  head. 

I  need  not  have  wanted  for  company  on  that  short 
day's  ride  from  the  coast  to  the  old  slattern  relict  of  a 
Spanish  mission  called  Goliad.  Huge  ox-arts,  with 
monstrous  rough-hewn  wheels  that  creaked  and  groaned, 
went  lumbering  along  the  dusty  road.  Tattered  Mexi- 
cans with  goads  screeched  incessant  blasphemy.  Little 
brown-faced  soldiers  in  torn  camisas  and  flapping  cal- 
zones  flanked  each  cart.  They  trudged  stolidly  under 
their  knapsacks,  and  each  bent  his  gaze  to  the  pair  of 
cracked  sandalled  heels  in  front  of  him.  Ridiculous 
smooth-bore  escopetas  pointed  variously  across  their 
shoulders  at  every  star  in  the  firmament,  had  there  been 
stars.  Officers  on  horseback  prodded  the  rank  and  file 
now  and  again  with  their  swords  in  abrupt  spasms  of 
duty,  to  remind  themselves  that  they  were  officers. 

But,  wanting  company,  I  wanted  not  these.  They 
were  not  the  plainsmen  hurrying  to  the  seat  of  war. 
They  were  our  foes.  The  plainsmen  were  in  Texas 
through  some  instinct  of  racial  greatness,  but  these  had 
no  need  of  Texas.  Yet  they  had  come — they  were  being 
driven,  rather — to  fight  us.  I  looked  down  on  the 
brownish,  stupid  faces,  and  contrasted  them  with  the 


THE  MAN'S  PHASE  OF  TREMBLING      157 

lithe  red  men  who  were  our  accustomed  foe.  It  was 
insult.  That  Santa  Ana  could  imagine  that  Amer- 
icans would  ever  kneel  to  conquerors  like  these! 

But  a  strong  man,  if  cornered,  can  be  brought  down 
by  rats  at  last.  The  vermin  on  the  Copano  road  were 
the  beginning  of  a  swarthy  horde.  A  vessel  from  Vera 
Cruz  was  unloading  this  pest  of  men  and  weight  of  metal 
upon  us.  Some  of  the  carts  were  prickly  with  bay- 
onets. The  forms  of  muskets  bulged  from  coarse  sacking. 
A  heavily  swathed  lump,  tapering  to  an  ugly  muzzle, 
was  a  cannon.  There  were  chests  and  boxes  and  kegs, 
balls  of  six  pounds,  balls  of  an  ounce,  and  powder. 
Here  was  death  standing  "ardent  on  the  edge  of  war." 
In  imagination  I  saw  the  belching  of  artillery,  and  heard 
the  roar.  I  crouched  under  the  "zip!"  of  bullets, 
covered  my  eyes  against  the  glitter  of  steel,  felt  the  warm 
blood  trickling  over  my  left  side. 

Thus  were  the  laden  carts  projected  to  carnage  on  the 
field  of  battle.  It  was  a  conceit  that  would  not  quit  my 
thoughts,  ride  hard  as  I  might.  A  new  kind  of  fear 
crept  over  me  stealthily.  I  mean  the  horror  of  mutila- 
tion, the  hideous  spectre  of  flesh  and  bone  torn  by  a 
jagged  shell,  of  entrails  oozing,  of  brains  spattered,  of 
the  ants  and  flies,  and  of  the  buzzard  overhead,  as  one 
lies  dying  in  the  grass.  The  armour  buckled  on  by  the 
last  three  years  of  peril  was  melting,  surely  melting,  into 
goose-flesh.  It  was  stiff  work  to  get  one's  jaws  together, 
to  clench  them  tight.  Youth,  you  know,  does  not  think 
of  mangled  human  carrion.  That  is  for  maturity.  It  is 
the  man's  phase  of  trembling.  And  here  I  was  at  that 
pass  already.  Fighting  had  lost  its  glorious  appeal 
forever. 

But  there,  people  who  are  everlastingly  teasing  their 
souls  for  answers  about  themselves  are  dreary  com- 
panions. It  is  too  much  the  way  with  books,  too,  and 


i  S8  THE  LONE  STAR 

so  long  as  there  is  anything  to  do,  I  am  through  with 
books.  Nor  will  I  write  them;  unless,  in  the  spawn  of 
things  that  get  themselves  called  books,  these  reminis- 
cences should  be  so  deified.  Accordingly,  that  my  own 
companionship  might  brighten  to  more  cheerfulness,  I 
tried  as  I  rode  to  figure  out  how  the  horror  of  whizzing 
bullets  and  swaddled  hollow-ware  could  be  forstalled, 
nullified.  The  stuff  was  going  first  to  Goliad,  and  at 
Goliad  it  and  the  vagabond  soldiery  would  be  let  loose 
on  Texas  like  a  cloud  of  Egyptian  locusts,  as  Crockett 
would  say.  Goliad  was  the  portcullis,  then.  Goliad 
was  the  gateway.  Well,  and  why  not  block  the  gate- 
way? Ha,  I  smiled  patronisingly  on  myself.  So,  was 
this  a  military  head  I  was  trying  to  grow  on  my  shoulders  ? 

The  beaten  road  followed  the  San  Antonio  River  over 
a  prairie  as  level  as  a  floor,  and  it  was  not  yet  mid-after- 
noon when  I  saw  on  the  hill,  the  old  fort  and  mission 
whose  bastioned  walls  overlooked  the  squalid  town  of 
Goliad.  The  very  first  jacal  of  logs  and  mud  was 
now  a  sentry  box,  and  as  I  came  opposite,  spewed  its 
living  contents  over  me.  Yellow  faces  and  claw-like 
fingers,  up  my  horse  they  swarmed,  and  pulled  me  down 
as  wolves  do  a  wounded  buffalo,  and  snatched  away  my 
rifle,  my  pistols,  my  knife.  I  had  thought  that  this 
might  happen,  but  had  laid  it  to  my  fears,  knowing  that 
fear  kept  me  from  looking  ahead  clearly,  and  must  be 
allowed  for.  Besides,  since  Nan's  father  was  here, 
where  else  could  I  go? 

Unarmed  and  helpless  in  the  middle  of  that  gloating, 
gesticulating,  rag-tag  and  bobtail  hollow  square,  I  felt 
particularly  ridiculous.  The  sooner  they  could  get  me 
through  the  town  up  to  the  fort,  and  locked  in  from  jeer- 
ing eyes,  the  better.  But  the  villainous  rabble  of  this 
villainous  Mexican  nest  of  smugglers  and  cutthroats 
gathered  round,  howling  gleefully  as  they  jostled  or  ran 


THE  MAN'S  PHASE  OF  TREMBLING      159 

or  darted  in  to  make  grimaces  under  my  nose.  We 
surged  up  a  narrow,  ravine-like  street  between  mud 
walls,  and  we  made  haste  not  only  slowly  but  tumult- 
uously.  The  hate  boiled  up  in  me,  and  surprised  me 
too,  for  I  did  not  think  I  was  capable  of  it.  But  the 
screeching,  scurvy  louts,  they  knew  that  I  was  helpless. 
And  yet,  if  I  had  my  pistols  or  knife,  would  I  dare  use 
them?  Would  I,  by  any  conscious  act,  rouse  the  vile 
taunts  to  the  fury  of  blows  ?  I  was  just  in  the  humilia- 
tion of  deciding  no,  that  I  would  not,  when  something 
wet  spattered  on  my  temple,  and  trickled  slimily  down 
my  cheek.  I  swung  round,  and  saw  a  grinning  mouth 
and  yellow  fangs.  This  cur  had  spit  in  my  face !  And 
down  he  went.  I  blotted  the  grinning  mouth,  the  yellow 
fangs,  from  my  sight.  It  happened  so  quickly,  I  did 
not  know  myself  that  I  had  struck.  But  down  I 
went  too,  and  was  stifled  under  unclean  flesh  as  the 
pack  fought  to  tear  me,  jabbing  viciously  with  their 
knives,  jabbing  each  other  as  well  as  me. 

"Ah,  now  I  say,  the  deuce!"  It  was  a  voice  of  bored 
surprise,  of  lifted  eyebrows;  a  lazy,  supercilious,  patron- 
ising voice.  "But  senores,  caballeros,  re-ahly  now!" 

He  was  a  rescuer,  perhaps.  But,  curse  him,  whoever 
he  was,  why  was  he  meddling?  That  is  just  the  way  his 
drawling  condescension  exasperated  me,  even  though  he 
had  saved  my  life. 

"Oh  I  say,  you  the  sergeant,  re-ahly  now,  fawncy ! " 

Whether  the  stranger  with  his  broad  English  and  flat 
Spanish  was  a  person  of  authority,  or  whether  the  ser- 
geant of  the  guards  who  were  helping  murder  me  only 
took  it  for  granted  from  his  lofty  manner,  I  did  not  know. 
But  rough  commands  mixed  with  the  yelps  and  grunts, 
and  the  pack  on  top  of  me  thinned  out,  and  opened, and  I 
I  saw  the  light  of  day  once  more.  Also,  getting  painfully 
to  my  feet,  I  beheld  what  was  a  marvellous  visitation 


160  THE  LONE  STAR 

on  that  town  of  mud  and  rags.  The  visitation  was 
a  man  of  gorgeous  raiment,  of  scarlet  fox-hunting  coat, 
of  baggy  white  riding-breeches,  of  Hessian  boots,  highly 
polished  and  London  made,  of  an  ivory-handled  crop 
under  his  arm,  and  of  a  ruby-jewelled  snuff-box  out  of 
which  he  was  then  taking  a  pinch  with  a  lordly  gesture. 
I  stared  with  blinking  eyes.  I  myself  was  scratched  and 
torn  and  dusty,  in  deerskin  and  woollen  shirt,  with  open 
collar  baring  my  tanned  breast.  Suddenly,  meeting 
his  lazily  curious  eyes,  I  hated  this  man  and  his  flaunt- 
ing elegance.  I  hated  him  with  an  intensity  and  a 
virulence  I  have  never  known  for  another,  not  even  for 
the  vermin,  not  even  for  Lush  Yandell.  The  man 
had  the  assurance  of  brass.  He  was  as  little  conscious 
of  being  conspicuous  among  his  fellow  men  as  if  they 
were  the  dogs  of  the  street. 

He  stood  there,  feet  apart,  fondling  a  drooping  mous- 
tache, and  indolently  gazed  at  me  as  at  a  specimen  of 
some  kind,  though  not  a  particularly  interesting  one. 
He  looked  bored,  the  momentary  diversion  of  my  being 
murdered  now  having  passed.  He  was  thin,  rather  tall, 
and  his  shoulders  were  bent.  He  was,  indeed,  built 
on  the  downward  stroke.  Long  sandy  lashes  hung 
sleepily  over  protruding  eyes.  An  aquiline  nose  slanted 
to  the  parting  of  his  moustache.  This  moustache  was 
like  an  inverted  golden  harp  that  drooped  over  either 
corner  of  his  mouth.  The  lower  lip  was  a  blubber  lip, 
and  that  hung  too,  and  his  formless  chin  was  nearly 
lost  in  his  flabby  neck.  The  rabble  wavered  between 
insult  and  salaams.  If  the  visitation  were  not  a  buffoon, 
then  he  must  be  a  grand  seigneur  come  down  from  a 
distant  planet.  Pretty  much  the  same  childlike  doubt 
Was  my  own. 

"Oh  I  say,"  and  he  put  the  snuff  to  his  nostrils,  and 
said  it,  "this  is  an  Ameri-con!" 


THE  MAN'S  PHASE  OF  TREMBLING      161 

There  was  no  denying  the  classification.  Our  eminent 
zoologist  had  put  me  in  the  right  species  the  very  first 
time. 

"But  fawncy  an  Ameri-con  being  huh,  y'know?" 

If  he  thought  I  fancied  it  very  much,  he  was  mis- 
taken. I  was  looking  for  friends,  I  told  him. 

The  hand  on  his  moustache  jerked,  and  a  funny  light 
came  into  his  bulby  eyes. 

"Friends,  de-uh  me!"  He  waved  his  crop  over  the 
dusty  street  into  which  I  had  just  been  ground.  "De- 
uh  me,  was  there  no  other  place  to  look  for  friends? " 

My  stupidity  made  him  dismal,  and  I  would  have 
apologised,  only — I  wasn't  feeling  very  jaunty.  For 
some  mysterious  reason  things  were  fading  out,  or  tum- 
bling themselves  over  backward  into  an  oncoming  wave 
of  darkness.  The  'stranger's  momentary  interest  had 
vanished,  and  he  was  turning  away,  leaving  me  to  my 
captors,  when  the  click  of  a  horse's  hoofs  approaching 
up  the  narrow  street  caught  his  ear.  It  was  a  sharp, 
snappy  trot,  but  sounds  were  getting  blurred  too,  and 
I  can  only  recall  vaguely  that  the  horse  must  have 
slowed  up  on  breasting  through  the  crowd.  Its  rider 
was  just  something  filmy  and  white  seen  above  the 
peaked  sombreros,  and  she  was  coming  nearer  out  of 
the  black  wave  of  darkness.  And  then — I  heard  the 
second  voice  for  that  memorable  day. 

"Oh,  oh,  the  poor  child  is  all  over  blood!" 

Poor  child,  indeed!  But  I  forgave  that,  because  of  the 
voice,  of  this  second  voice  that  was  so  different  from 
the  cold,  lazy  drawl  of  the  gaudy  stranger.  Low  and 
clear  and  like  a  silver  bell,  it  was  the  sweetest  voice  I 
had  ever  heard.  It  sounded  so  far  away.  The  voice 
might  have  been  of  an  angel  leaning  over  the  parapet  of 
Heaven.  My  knees  wobbled,  the  universe  was  drunken, 
but  I  saw  the  gaudy  stranger's  hat  come  off,  and  his 


162  THE  LONE  STAR 

hand  go  out,  for  she  of  the  voice  had  indicated  that  she 
would  dismount. 

"If  it  isn't — why,  Harry,  Harry!" 
My  head  had  drooped  limp  on  my  breast,  but  she  was 
peering  up  into  my  face.  In  the  vanishing  of  the  world, 
her  features  were  beautiful.  In  the  maze  were  a  high 
Spanish  comb,  and  hazel  black  eyes,  swimming,  tender 
eyes.  .  .  .  But  no,  in  my  condition,  there  could 
not  have  been  recognition.  And  yet  out  of  that  dream 
state  I  muttered: 

"It's  been  three  years — three  years — three " 

"Quick,  you  sir,"  she  cried,  "he's  bleeding  to  death! — 
Oh  Harry,  Harry  Ripley!" 

"De-uh  me,  Ripley,  did  you  say? — Ripley?" 
The  drawl  had  quickened  oddly.  So,  I  had  inter- 
ested the  supercilious  gentleman,  after  all!  Yet  why, 
why?  But  no  matter,  I  resented  it,  even  as  my  senses 
quit  me.  Curse  him,  what  business  was  it  of  his.  .  .  . 
And  then  I  must  have  fallen  into  somebody's  arms.  It 
was  many  a  day,  though,  before  I  found  out  whose  irms 
they  were. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    TENTACLES    OF    THE    DEVILFISH 

THE  slashing  I  had  come  in  for  was  no  great  matter. 
Of  course  afterward  I  winced  at  the  thought  of 
two  severed  ends  of  a  vein  being  pulled  together  and  tied 
into  one  again,  or  of  the  gaping  lips  of  a  slit  across  my 
ribs  being  sewed  up,  or  of  minor  crevasses  rendered 
normal  skin-tight  once  more,  but  during  the  actual 
patching  I  was  blissfully  unconscious.  And  when  I 
came  to,  it  was  in  the  greater  bliss  of  feeling  very,  very 
tired,  and  of  having  a  luxuriously  soft  bed  under  me. 
Only  just  lying  there  was  a  thoroughly  satisfying  physical 
content. 

I  wondered  if  I  were  still  in  Goliad.  But  a  dungeon 
cell  in  the  fortress  would  hardly  be  equipped  with 
feather  beds.  An  old  lady  came  in  presently  with  some 
fresh  bandages.  Never  once  moving,  but  just  lying 
there  on  my  back  feeling  so  good,  I  watched  her.  Wrin- 
kles lined  her  face,  but  they  were  very  fine  wrinkles, 
and  she  had  brave,  tender  eyes.  And  she  went  at  those 
bandages,  ripping  and  sewing,  as  though  she  had  done 
the  same  thing  often  before  in  times  gone  by.  You 
would  know  that  she  had,  because  you  could  see  far-away 
memory  in  the  brave  old  eyes.  Only  when  she  laid  a 
salve  or  something  on  the  cloth,  and  leaned  over  to 
undo  my  swathed  head,  and  saw  my  eyes  wide  open,  did 
the  sadly  reminiscent  look  vanish. 

"Why,  you  po'  dear!"  she  exclaimed  softly,  and  out 
of  the  room  she  hurried,  for  coffee  was  more  imperative 
now  than  bandages.  She  came  back  at  once,  exul- 
tantly agitated  over  my  progress,  and  bearing  a  little 

163 


164  THE  LONE  STAR 

blue  china  cup  on  a  blue  china  plate.  She  lifted  my 
head  in  the  crook  of  her  arm,  and  held  the  cup  to  my  lips. 
"Now  then,  child,  you  must  try,  do  you  hear?"  The 
ineffable  fragrance  of  our  good  old  black  drip  coffee  rose 
in  bracing  strength  to  my  nostrils. 

"Louisiana?"  I  questioned  gratefully. 

"Not  quite,  dear,"  she  said,  smiling  as  my  mother 
would  have  done.  "But  Natchez  is  pretty  nigh  the 
same,  and  that's  where  I  was  raised.  I  am  Mrs.  Long." 

My  senses  were  far  from  alert  just  then.  But  after- 
ward I  knew.  She  was  Jane  Long,  well-beloved  through- 
out Texas,  and  the  widow  of  that  General  Long  who  had 
fought  the  Spaniards.  Old  Man  Buckalew  had  already 
told  us,  there  that  evening  at  his  ranch  with  Bowie  and 
Houston,  Row  he  and  General  Long  had  courted  their 
wives  together  in  Natchez,  and  how  their  wives  had 
followed  them  across  the  Neutral  Ground  into  Texas. 
This  made  it  clear  why  Mrs.  Long  seemed  used  to  doing 
what  she  was  doing  for  me  now. 

"I  want  to  know,"  I  said  weakly,  "why  I  came  to 
Goliad?" 

"Po'  dear  child,"  she  murmured,  "that  is  what  none 
of  us  can  imagine.  Didn't  you  know  how  dangerous 
and  foolish  it  was?  Why,  just  the  other  day  the  Mexicans 
struck  down  the  alcalde  himself  because  he  couldn't  get 
them  enough  carts  to  take  their  ammunition  to  San 
Antone." 

I  tossed  uneasily. 

"But  there  was  something  I  came  to  do — something 
important — I ' ' 

My  head  was  gently  lowered  to  that  beautiful,  heart's- 
ease  pillow  of  my  bed,  and  almost  at  once  my  eyes  closed 
in  the  sweetest  sleep. 

The  subtle  whispering  sound  of  those  filmy  petti- 
coats that  seem  to  pertain  to  young  girls  awoke  me  next. 


THE  TENTACLES  OF  THE  DEVILFISH     165 

Yet  I  was  too  delightfully  comfortable  to  stir,  or  even 
to  open  my  eyes. 

"I  declare  to  Goodness,  child,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Long, 
who  was  sitting  near  the  head  of  my  bed,  "why  will 
you  wear  those  lovely  New  Awlins  frocks,  and  only  just 
to  help  me  here  with  him?" 

"Ssh!"  The  newcomer  no  doubt  had  a  finger  to  her 
lips.  "  How  is  he,  Aunt  Jane?  Not  conscious  yet? " 

My  eyes  flew  open.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  angel 
who  had  leaned  over  the  parapet  of  Heaven.  But  I 
made  out  less  of  her  than  even  the  night  before,  or  how- 
ever long  ago  it  was  when  I  fell  into  somebody's  arms. 
There  was  only  the  blurred  vision  of  a  radiant  girl  in 
light  blue. 

They  talked  on  in  whispers,  but  I  caught  a  word  now 
and  then  mingling  with  my  dream  state.  One  name 
seemed  to  occur  frequently,  the  name  of  a  Mr.  Gritton. 
And  somehow  I  did  not  like  that  name.  "Mr.  Gritton" 
seemed  to  fit  the  gaudy  stranger.  And  what  business 
had  he  ... 

"But  Aunt  Jane,  after  all  he's  as  lovable  as  a,  a — 
why,  as  a  girl."  I  was  hearing  better  now,  for  she  had 
stolen  quite  near.  (But  the  Devil  take  their  lovable 
Mr.  Gritton!)  "And  he  is — at  least  he  was — Oh  I  don't 
know! — so  sort  of  modest  and  timid  and  sensitive,  and 
the  way  he  used  to  blush,  one  wanted  to  just " 

Whatever  one  wanted  to  just  do,  she  did  not  mention, 
but  she  probably  bit  her  tongue,  and  almost  over  my 
pillow,  it  seemed. 

"O-oh,"  said  Mrs.  Long,  "  and  who's  blushing  now, 
I  wonder!" 

"Well,  anyhow,"  cried  the  maid  defiantly,  "he  was 
that  aggravating,  a  girl  simply  pined  to — Oh  you  know! 
— pull  his  hair — anything — to  make  him  talk  back ;  only 
he  wouldn't."  (Lucky  Mr.  Gritton!) 


1 66  THE  LONE  STAR 

"And,"  she  added  demurely,  "I  reckon  I  did  nag 
him,  for  he'd  get  red  and  try  to  keep  out  of  my  way. 
Dear,  dear,  it's  no  wonder  Daddy  used  to  call  me  a  little 
catamount!" 

"I  notice,"  observed  Mrs.  Long  sweetly,  "that  he 
does  yet,  dear." 

"Aunt  Jane! — But  there,  it's  only  Daddy's  habit. 
And  besides,  we're  not  talking  about  Daddy  just  now. 
We're  talking  about — about  someone  else;  and  about 
the  first  time  I  saw  him." 

"The  po'  baby  boy!"  and  I  adored  Mrs.  Long  for  thus 
describing  the  odious  Gritton. 

"Baby?"  repeated  the  girl,  and  so  indignantly  that 
I  wished  Mrs.  Long  had  not  provoked  his  defence. 
"Baby,  and  with  a  jaw  like  that?  Why  Aunt  Jane, 
he's  almost  undershot,  though  I  don't  recollect  that  he 
used  to  be.  But  that  is  just  what  is  so  exasperating; 
he  doesn't  know  his  own  strength.  That  Mexican 
whose  jaw  he  broke,  he  went  down  as  if  struck  by  an 
axe." 

There  were  splints  on  my  right  hand,  and  I  reflected 
bitterly  that  7  could  not  hit  anyone  without  cracking 
my  knuckles.  What  a  contrast  to  the  puissant  Mr. 
Gritton ! 

"As  Mr.    Gritton  says " 

But  whatever  Mr.  Gritton  had  deigned  to  say,  I  did 
not  hear,  for  there  was  another  witching  rustle  of  skirts, 
and  then  a  soft,  cool  hand  lightly  touched  my  forehead. 
I  sighed  luxuriously,  and  the  hand  was  jerked  away. 
My  eyes  opened  at  the  abruptness  of  it,  opened  to  a 
lustrous  black  pair,  to  possibly  seven  freckles,  and  roses 
under  the  tan,  and  to  the  prettiest  mouth  that  ever  was. 
I  sighed  luxuriously  again. 

"  Kiss  me,"  I  ordered. 

I  don't  know  how  I  could  have  said  such  a  thing. 


THE  TENTACLES  OF  THE  DEVILFISH    167 

But  the  kiss  seemed  an  eminently  desirable  thing,  and 
so  I  asked  for  it. 

The  girl  straightened  to  the  rigidity  of  a  tragedy 
queen,  and  she  was  furious  all  right.  Mrs.  Long  laughed 
at  her  merrily. 

"  Goodness,"  she  said,  "you  mustn't  mind!  Don't  you 
see  he's  half  delirious?" 

My  lady's  face  softened  again  at  that,  and  there  was 
that  in  her  hesitation  as  she  bent  nearer  that  I  thought 
for  a  moment — and  trembled,  too,  in  exquisite  longing — 
that  she  was  really  going  to.  .  .  .  But  there,  as  Mrs. 
Long  said,  I  was  half  delirious.  Besides,  the  conceited 
expectancy  was  shattered  an  instant  later,  for  the  girl 
impetuously  changed  her  mind,  and  flung  herself  away. 
"Oh,  but  he  shall  suffer  a  plenty  for  this!"  she  cried. 

"But  not,"  Mrs.  Long  interposed,  "until  he  gets  over 
his  real  suffering,  dear." 

After  that  I  had  an  instinctive  feeling  for  the  girl's 
presence,  yet  not  again  during  any  waking  moment 
while  I  lay  there  did  I  actually  see  her  in  the  room. 
This  was  naturally  an  incentive  to  get  well.  It  grew 
more  and  more  necessary  to  see  her  again;  absorbingly, 
poignantly  necessary.  It  was  the  constant  prod  in 
my  dreams,  and  the  barb  to  delirium.  The  very  feathers 
in  the  glorious  feather-bed  were  turned  to  nettles.  Who 
was  she,  this  radiant  niece  of  Mrs.  Long's?  For  that  also 
was  vital.  I  must  find  out  why  the  clear,  sweet  quality 
of  her  voice  stirred  my  memory  so.  Of  course,  a  voice 
like  that  stirred  my  heart,  my  whole  being;  but  whv 
memory  also?  I  had  to  find  out. 

I  did,  therefore,  get  well,  and  much  sooner  than 
was  possible  to  convince  Mrs.  Long  of  the  samte.  But 
one  morning,  after  the  dear  old  lady  had  brought  my 
breakfast  and  gone  out,  and  the  house  seemed  quiet,  I 
propped  myself  up  and  twisted  around  until  I  sat  on 


1 68  THE  LONE  STAR 

the  edge  of  the  bed.  I  tried  my  feet  to  the  floor, 
and  at  once  appreciated  how  seductive  the  bed  was. 
But  I  held  by  the  post  and  stood  up,  until  gradually 
my  head  stopped  hovering  in  midair  and  settled  down 
where  heads  belong.  It  flew  off  again,  though,  when 
I  let  loose  the  post,  and  there  was  another  delay  trying 
to  coax  it  back.  The  floor  was  very  far  away,  too,  for 
walking  purposes,  or  else  my  legs  had  shrunk  so  that 
they  had  trouble  in  reaching  down  so  great  a  distance. 

There  were  men's  garments  lying  folded  on  a  chair, 
and  I  recognised  my  extra  hunting  shirt,  clean  and 
recently  mended,  and  my  late  habiliments  of  deer  hide. 
With  infinite  cunning,  since  it  was  necessary  to  wait 
after  each  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  or  out  of  it,  I  pushed 
the  chair  with  its  treasures  to  the  bed,  where  I  sat  and 
dressed.  At  last  even  the  leggings  were  buckled,  and  I 
was  ready  to  explore  this  house  I  was  in.  I  hoped  to 
provoke,  if  possible,  some  association  of  ideas  to  bring 
back  to  me  the  reason  for  my  coming.  It  was  curious, 
too,  why  I  was  not  at  that  moment  shackled  to  an  iron 
ring  in  the  old  fort  on  the  hill. 

But — what  if  Mrs.  Long's  niece  were  in  ambush,  and 
in  one  of  those  lovely  New  Orleans  frocks?  I  reddened 
like  a  fastidious  collegian  at  thought  of  my  hard-ridden 
togs,  and  lay  down,  to  rest  and  think  it  over.  Curse 
self-consciousness,  anyhow!  But  not  a  footfall  sounded 
in  the  whole  house.  I  must  be  the  only  one  at  home. 
So  I  got  up  again,  and  navigated  to  one  of  two  doors. 
I  pushed  it  open,  and — there  was  the  girl  herself! 

As  quiet  as  a  mouse  she  had  been,  moving  swiftly 
about  in  felt  slippers.  Nor  was  she  in  one  of  the  frocks, 
but  in  crisp  gingham,  with  the  collar  turned  in,  revealing 
a  soft  neck  and  throat,  and  with  the  sleeves  rolled  up. 
The  room  was  dining-room  and  kitchen  both.  There 
were  the  Mexican  charcoal  braseros  of  brick  and  adobe 


THE  TENTACLES  OP  THE  DEVILFISH    169 

against  the  wall,  and  the  girl  was  evidently  busy  cook- 
ing. Yet  in  that  case  we  would  have  an  unusual  broth 
for  lunch,  for  what  did  that  girl  do,  as  I  stood  there 
unobserved,  but  gather  up  all  the  pewter  spoons  and 
drop  them  into  the  pot  ?  Other  rare  possessions  followed, 
such  as  every  metal  dish  or  goblet,  but  still  not  satisfied, 
she  looked  around  for  more.  The  clock  weight  caught 
her  eye,  and  she  broke  it  from  the  pendulum,  and  added 
even  that  to  her  strange  cookery.  The  lines  of  her  face 
were  set  in  defiant,  pensive  scorn.  She  could  have  been 
War's  triumphant  maid.  The  first  time  I  had  seen  her 
she  was  tying  the  deadly  gaff  on  a  fighting  cock.  And 
now  she  was  moulding  bullets. 

But  who  could  suspect  that  she  would  grow  from 
sixteen  to  nineteen?  In  all  my  young  experience  of 
Life  I  had  never  met  with  a  phenomenon  so  disconcerting. 

"Nan — Miss  Buckalew!"  I  cried. 

She  turned  round  on  me,  greatly  startled.  But  her 
alarm  changed  to  instant  relief  on  seeing  who  it  was. 

"Oh,  back  to  bed  you  go!"  she  exclaimed  "If  Aunt 
Jane  were  here,  sir " 

I  came  toward  her  instead.  She  gave  a  hand  to  my 
elbow,  but  I  wiggled  away  from  it,  not  being  a  child, 
and  managed  to  reach  a  split  log  used  as  a  bench  for 
the  water  bucket. 

"Tell  me,  where's  your  father?" 

I  knew  now  why  I  had  come. 

"Where's  Daddy?"  she  repeated,  "Well,  no  one  is 
going  to  know  that,  until  Daddy  himself  comes  back." 

"But  doesn't  he  know  he's  on  the  list,  that  he  will 
be  shot?" 

"Yes,  he  knows,  but  he's  coming  back  just  the  same. 

And  when  he  does "  She  paused  to  test  the  molten 

lead  with  a  strip  of  paper.  " — And  when  he  does,  he 
will  need  some  of  these." 


1 70  THE  LONE  STAR 

He  would  need  bullets,  in  other  words. 

"Miss  Buckalew,"  I  said,  "do  you  know  that  his 
getting  on  the  list  was  my  fault?" 

She  was  pouring  the  lead  into  moulds,  but  she 
stopped,  put  her  hands  on  her  hips,  and  stared  at 
me.  Now  I  must  say  here  that  there  was  a  certain 
touch  of  gaucherie  in  Nan's  bearing  and  manner  that 
made  her  more  human  and  more  lovable  than  a  parapet 
angel. 

This  touch  of  awkwardness  was  a  reminder  of  her 
old  torn-boy  days  when  I  first  met  her.  I  should 
call  it  now  a  sweet  boyishness,  a  wholesome  development 
of  the  lank,  wild  little  girl  in  short  leather  skirts  I  had 
known.  This  faint  elusive  gaucherie  was  the  outward 
expression  of  her  honest,  impulsive,  untamed  nature, 
the  protest  against  stilted  conventions  as  it  was  against 
studied  grace.  Well,  after  all,  it  was  grace  itself,  and 
more,  the  piquant  exuberance  of  a  girl  who  has  just 
left  her  education  behind  her. 

"Your  fault?"  she  questioned. 

"Yes,"  I  mumbled  resolutely,  "Santa  Ana  got 
your  father's  name  from  me,  and  at  once  concluded 
that  it  was  your  father  who  had  been  telling  that 
story  about " 

It  was  my  turn  to  stare  now,  for  instead  of  reproach, 
she  gave  way  to  delight  unbounded,  laughing  and  clap- 
ping her  hands. 

"Harry  Ripley,"  she  cried.  "You  don't  mean — Oh 
good,  good  for  you!  About  the  Battle  on  the  Medina, 
you  mean?  Oh,  oh,  and  didn't  that  make  your  Sant' 
Ana  feel  happy,  though!" 

"  But  just  the  same,  young  lady,  my  Santa  Ana  wants 
to  fasten  the  joke  back  on  your  father,  and  if  he  catches 
him  once " 

She  sobered  a  little  at  that. 


THE  TENTACLES  OF  THE  DEVILFISH    i7I 

"Oh  well,  it's  all  right,"  she  said.  "  We  were  warned 
in  time  by  Mr.  Gritton." 

"Who's  Mr.  Gritton?" 

Her  eyebrows  arched  at  my  savage  tone. 

"Oh  dear  me,"  she  said,  "you  really  mustn't  feel  so 
bad  over  Mr.  Gritton  saving  Daddy.  He  seems  to  save 
nearly  everybody,  anyhow.  Don't  you  know  that  Mr. 
Gritton  was  one  of  the  commissioners  that  our  people 
sent  to  General  Cos  to  get  this  very  list  revoked,  only 
Cos  wouldn't?  Then  he — Mr.  Gritton — came  all  the 
way  to  warn  those  on  the  list.  He  had  to  follow  Daddy 
clear  to  Copano,  too.  Now  I  think  that  that  was  splendid 
of  him." 

Having  done  the  same  thing  myself,  though  she  knew 
it  not,  I  did  not  think  one  way  or  the  other. 

"Mr.  Gritton,"  she  went  on,  "was  with  Daddy  and 
Aunt  Jane — Mrs.  Long  is  my  good-as-aunt,  you  know, 
and  everybody  else's — when  they  met  me  as  I  landed  last 
week  at  Copano.  It  was  then  that  he  told  Daddy  about 
the  list,  and  while  Daddy  cleared  out  he — Mr.  Gritton — 
saw  Aunt  Jane  and  me  safely  here  where  Aunt  Jane  has 
lived  all  these  years.  Oh  yes,"  she  concluded,  looking 
my  way  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye  as  she  bent  over  her 
work,  "Mr.  Gritton  saved  Daddy  all  right." 

"But  what  made  him  wait  so  long?  Why  did  he 
have  to  wait  until  after  he  had  seen  you?" 

The  lashes  curtaining  her  eyes  lifted,  and  she  regarded 
me  almost  tenderly  for  a  moment. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  and  you  could  see  that  she  was 
a  little  perplexed,  "you  do  not  know  that  Mr.  Gritton 
first  came  to  Texas  with  Colonel  Almonte?" 

"Almonte?"  I  leaped  to  my  feet,  but  something 
like  a  knife  in  my  left  side  brought  me  back  quickly. 
"He  came  with  Almonte?" 

"Yes,  as  his  secretary." 


i72  THE  LONE  STAR 

"  But — but  Almonte  was  no  more  than  a  spy ! " 

"Of  course,  don't  we  all  know  that,  now?  Almonte 
Was  really  taking  notes  for  invasion.  But  that's  just 
why  Mr.  Gritton  left  him  and  became  a  Texian." 

"  I  see.  Then  this  Gritton  couldn't  have  been  hunting 
your  father  at  Santa  Ana's  orders? " 

"  Harry,  Harry,  didn't  I  tell  you  that  he  saved  Daddy !" 

"Yes,  after  he  had  seen  you." 

She  did  not  look  so  tenderly  this  time.  More  prob- 
ably she  was  going  to  stamp  her  foot.  But  there  was 
a  rapping  on  the  street  door,  and  she  hastened  out, 
pulling  down  her  sleeves  as  she  went.  When  she 
returned,  heavy  footsteps  sounded  close  behind. 

"Mr.  Gritton,"  she  announced  wickedly,  and  there 
in  the  doorway  appeared  the  supercilious  and  gaudy 
stranger  whom  I  already  hated. 

Marvel  of  marvels  for  Texas,  his  lean,  stooped  figure 
was  arrayed  in  a  complete  change,  yet  as  completely 
as  before  exuding  a  lofty  and  indolent  elegance.  Fully 
"arm'd  in  impudence,"  all  mankind  to  brave,  was  this 
Englishman.  For,  of  course,  he  was  an  Englishman. 
His  regalia  now  comprised  tight  doeskin  pantaloons  with 
straps,  a  long-skirted  coat  whose  wide  velvet  collar 
had  the  exaggerated  roll  seen  in  prints  of  his  own  King 
William,  a  flowered  vest,  a  frilled  shirt,  and  a  very  high 
white  stock  so  dainty  in  its  purity  as  to  rebuke  hunting 
shirts  with  no  stock  at  all.  I  began  to  disapprove  of 
him  more  inordinately  than  ever,  especially  as  it  was 
impossible  to  tell  whether  Miss  Nan  Buckalew  disap- 
proved or  not.  I  looked  for  the  diffident  blushes  she 
had  so  adored,  but  though  her  Mr.  Gritton  was  a  pink 
specimen  enough,  yet  it  was  a  settled  floridity,  and  as  for 
diffidence,  that  was  the  very  last  thing  anyone  might 
expect.  It  provoked  me  immeasurably  that  girls  could 
be  so  blind. 


THE  TENTACLES  OF  THE  DEVILFISH    173 

"Mr.  Gritton  has  come,"  said  Nan,  with  a  trace  of 
mockery  for  at  least  one  of  us,  or  both,  "to  pay  his 
respects  to  Mr.  Ripley." 

My  name  had  mysteriously  interested  the  stranger, 
I  recalled,  but  there  was  no  hint  of  interest  in  his  manner 
now.  With  legs  apart,  sleepily  fondling  his  golden 
moustache,  he  surveyed  me  out  of  his  bulby  eyes,  and 
said,  "Ah,  to  be  sure,"  as  though  he  were  quite  sure 
that  he  wasn't  sure  at  all.  It  made  me  feel  inadequate, 
inconsequential,  and  to  feel  that  way  before  Nan  was  not 
pleasant,  either.  But  I  was  no  fit  antagonist  for  this 
self-centred  Briton.  Yet  who  else  might  dent  his  shell 
and  touch  the  flesh  and  blood  man  within,  if  there  were 
a  flesh  and  blood  man  within  ?  Could  the  mocking  dare- 
devil, Bowie?  Or  the  overpowering  Houston?  Or 
even  the  insinuating  Santa  Ana?  Not  one  of  them,  I 
decided.  But  I  had  forgotten  Nan.  Yet  I  remotely 
suspect  now  that  she  was  laughing  at  him  all  the  time. 
At  least  she  dominated  the  situation,  and  he  knew  it 
least  of  all,  and  she  manipulated  the  two  of  us  as  puppets 
to  suit  her  whims  from  one  minute  to  the  next. 

"Mr.  Gritton,  Harry,"  she  explained  affably,  "'was 
able  to  bring  us  your  horse  and  saddle." 

"But  not  the — ah — contraband,  his — ah — weapons — 
to  be  sure,  Miss  Buckalew." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Nan,  "but  if  a  certain  generous 
young  man  of  my  acquaintance  appreciates  being  here 
instead  of  in  a  dungeon  up  at  the  fort,  he  has  you  to 
thank,  Mr.  Gritton.  He  already  knows,  though,  how 
you  save  nearly  everybody." 

This  was  a  shot  for  me,  since  she  knew  how  I 
fumed  against  the  man.  But  I  could  not  help  being 
thankful  to  him,  and  started  to  tell  him  so,  when  she 
seized  the  reins  again,  giving  me  no  chance. 

"Right  this  minute,"  she  proceeded  mischievously, 


i74  THE  LONE  STAR 

with  all  the  buoyant  confidence  in  herself  of  the  young 
miss  just  ready  for  the  world,  "right  now  there  would 
be  a  half-dozen  filthy  soldiers  quartered  on  poor  Aunt 
Jane  if  it  wasn't  for — Oh  I  tell  you  what,  Harry, 
it's  a  mighty  good  thing  to  have  a  friend  with  the 
enemy  !" 

And  that  was  certainly  a  shot  for  him. 

"Oh  I  say  now,  Miss  Buckalew,"  he  drawled,  the 
while  indolently  appraising  her  new-blown  loveliness, 
"that  cawn't  be,  y'know.  I'm  a — ah — a  Texian 
myself,  y'know." 

His  denial,  for  its  very  elephantine  clumsiness,  had 
the  simplicity  of  truth.  But  Nan  was  either  very  deep, 
or  she  had  a  small  suspicious  nature.  At  any  rate,  she 
persisted,  and  the  Briton  answered;  in  his  dense,  lazy 
way  never  thinking  it  possible  that  his  integrity  was 
on  trial.  He  still  had — ah — some  credentials.  A — 
ah — card — which  had  served  him  when  secretary  to 
Colonel  Almonte.  And  if  the  beastly  Mexicans  in  Goliad 
took  the  card  to  mean  that  he  was  still — ah — Colonel 
Almonte's  secretary,  and  if  they  did  anything  he  re- 
quested for  his — to  be  sure — his  friends,  why  re-ahly 
now,  a  chap  hardly  felt  equal  to  the  exertion  of  explaining 
that  he  was  no  longer  secretary  to  Colonel  Almonte. 
But  it  was  stupid  of  them,  y'know,  very. 

What  more  elephantine!  Yet  with  the  elephant's 
sure  plodding  intelligence  behind  apparent  density! 

"  But  how  long,"  promptly  demanded  the  irrepressible 
Nan,  "has  Mr.  Ripley  held  a  place  among  your — ah — 
friends?" 

"De-uh  me,  he  is  a  Texian,  isn't  he?" 

"You  know  well  enough  he  is.  And  you  knew  it,  too, 
the  other  afternoon  when  they  almost  killed  him,  and 
yet,"  she  added  angrily,  "you  were  going  to  leave  him 
there." 


THE  TENTACLES  OF  THE  DEVILFISH     175 

I  sat  up  abruptly,  and  paid  attention.  No,  this  was 
not  a  small,  suspicious  nature  that  Nan  possessed. 

T,he  Briton,  however,  was  in  no  wise  perturbed.  "Ah 
yes,  I  do  recall  the  incident,"  he  drawled.  "But  our 
young  friend  did  not  say  he  was  a  Texian.  An — ah — 
Ameri — con,  I  think  he  said.  Then  you  came,  Miss 
Buckalew,  and  you  called  him  by  name.  I  had  heard 
that  name  when  Colonel  Almonte  and  I  were  at — ah — 
Gonzales.  Almonte  was,  to  tell  the  truth,  waiting  for 
our  young  friend  there.  Almonte  wanted — ah — infor- 
mation, and  our  young  friend  was — ah — obliging,  very. 
It  had  to  do  with  a  letter  from — to  be  sure — from 
Mr.  Austin,  and  it  ended  with  that  poor  chap's 
imprisonment.  Since  then  I  have  desired  to  meet 
our  young  friend,  and  to  warn  him  against  future — ah 
— indiscretions." 

He  would,  in  other  words,  keep  me  from  being  here- 
after the  blatant  fool  I  had  been.  I  still  felt  like  one, 
with  Nan  looking  at  me  narrowly,  and  knowing  from 
my  shamed  expression  that  the  revelation  was  quite 
true. 

"Because  you  see,  Miss  Buckalew,"  the  Englishman 
pursued,  as  ever  lazily  taking  Nan  in  from  head  to  foot, 
"Colonel  Almonte  had  told  me  that  our  young  friend 
had  been  so  very — ah — useful,  y'know." 

"Maybe  so,"  I  cried  hotly,  "but  it's  the  last  time, 
sir!" 

With  legs  apart,  fondling  the  golden  harp  of  a  mous- 
tache, he  stared  at  me  blankly,  as  though  he  had  not 
observed  before  that  I  was  present. 

"Ah?"  That  was  all  he  said.  My  resolve  to  be  no 
more  a  dupe  was  worth  contemplation,  was  a  momentary 
surcease  of  boredom.  During  the  months  that  followed 
I  often  recalled  his  sceptical  lifting  of  the  brows  as  he 
said,  "Ah?" 


176  THE  LONE  STAR 

i 

But  his  interest  collapsing  at  once,  he  turned  again 
to  Nan. 

"You  observe,  Miss  Buckalew,  that  the  Mexican  chain  of 
espionage  is  a  nawsty  long  one;  nawsty,  very;  and  very, 
very  long.  It  drew  our  young  friend  here  even  into 
His  Excellency's  palace.  His  Excellency  was  needing 
another — ah — spy  among  the  colonists,  and  fifty  square 
leagues  were  the — ah — wages  offered." 

He  did  not  even  trouble  himself  to  turn  to  me  for  con- 
firmation. But  Nan  did,  and  there  was  a  look  on  her 
face  as  if  she  were  suddenly  ill. 

"But  His  Excellency,"  continued  Mr.  Gritton,  "per- 
ceived that  our  young  friend  did  not  understand." — 
Nan's  expression  changed  gloriously. — "Besides,  a  spy 
unconscious  of  the  fact  would  be  more  serviceable,  and- — 
ah — cheaper.  A  little  flattery,  y'know.  Or  perhaps 
a  dash  of — ah — intimidation.  The  latter,  I  believe, 
was  especially  recommended  in  the  case  of  our  young 
friend  by  a  low  person  named — yes,  to  be  sure — named 
Yandell.  But  shall  we  hope,  Miss  Buckalew,  that 
in  future  he  will  not  allow  himself  to  be  so  easily 
handled?" 

"As  easily,"  suggested  Nan  inquiringly,  "as  when 
he  broke  the  head  of  one  of  your  Mexican  friends,  is 
that  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Gritton?"  But  fury  got  the 
best  of  her,  and  she  turned  on  me,  and  this  time  she  did 
stamp  her  foot.  "Harry,"  she  cried,  "why  don't  you 
say  something?  Or  must  you  let  a  girl — "  Then  she 
stamped  her  foot  again. 

I  groaned  inwardly,  though  I  had  been  doing  that  all 
along.  Now  I  varied  it  a  little,  and  grinned  lugubriously. 

"Why?"  I  demanded.  "Why,  when  Mr.  Gritton 
couldn't  strike  back;  that  is,  not  just  now?" 

She  saw  the  force  in  that,  and  the  burst  of  fury  died 
out  in  a  pursing  of  red  lips.  "Of  course  not,  since 


THE  TENTACLES  OF  THE  DEVILFISH     177 

Mr.  Gritton  knows  you're  too  weak  even  to  stand.  Still, 
he  should  have  remembered  that  before  he  said  anything. 
But  another  time,  Harry" — Her  tone  was  almost  plead- 
ing— "another  time  you  will " 

She  paused  expectantly,  but  I  promised  nothing. 
Yet  for  that  pleading  in  her  look  I  knew  within  me  that 
another  time  things  would  be — well,  different. 

Mr.  Gritton  all  along  was  perfectly  oblivious.  He 
helped  himself  to  snuff  out  of  the  ruby-jewelled  box, 
crooking  his  elbow  high.  He  sauntered  over  to  the 
brasero  and  peered  into  the  metal  pot,  slightly  jerking 
his  moustache  as  he  recognised  the  preparations  for 
moulding  bullets. 

"Accordingly,"  he  resumed,  as  though  no  human 
being  had  spoken  since  he  had  last  delivered  himself, 
"let  us  beseech  our  young  friend  as  a  good — ah — Texian 
— not  to  let  'em  come  it  over  him  again.  The  long 
chain,  or  I  might  say,  the — ah — tentacles  of  the  devil- 
fish, are  even  now  groping  to  wind  him  around,  to  throttle 
him  for  the  enemy's  service.  Even  at  this — ah — very 
moment ! ' ' 

But  I  could  see  nothing  more  resembling  the  awful 
tentacles  mentioned  than  the  drooping  ends  of  Mr. 
Gritton's  moustache. 

And  then  Nan,  with  her  slender  fingers  curved 
ferociously,  jumped  at  me,  and  said  "Boo!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    DOZING    COLOSSUS    OF    RHODES 

EVEN  Nan  was  convinced  now  of  Mr.  Gritton's 
loyalty  to  Texas,  and  in  all  fairness  I  was  too, 
though  grudgingly.  To  doubt  him  after  he  had  warned 
me  against  the  Mexican  spy  system  would  be  unreason- 
able. He  did  not  do  it  in  a  very  palatable  way,  true 
enough,  but  that  was  the  more  compelling  evidence  of 
his  good  faith.  He  had  explained,  too,  his  rather 
remarkable  influence  over  the  Mexican  authorities,  but 
even  any  lingering  suspicions  on  this  score  were  to  be 
dispelled. 

This  happened  the  next  day.  Though  fully  dressed, 
I  had  given  way  to  the  luxury  of  my  couch,  when  there 
came  the  pounding  of  the  butt  of  a  sword  on  the  heavy 
wooden  street  door.  A  moment  later  Mrs.  Long  entered 
the  room.  "Well,  they're  here/'  she  announced  resign- 
edly, and  close  behind  her  appeared  a  half-dozen  swart 
leering  faces.  They  shuffled  in,  rilling  the  room  with 
the  odour  of  their  bodies,  and  lined  up  against  the  wall. 
He  who  commanded  the  squad  was  a  narrow-breasted 
lieutenant  in  cocked  hat  and  soiled  yellow  cloak.  The 
cocked  hat  was  in  his  hand,  and  his  black  porcupine 
hair  oozed  bear  grease.  The  hair  lay  back  flat  and 
straight  on  his  wedge-shaped  head,  so  that  head  and 
hair  and  grease,  combined  with  two  little  eyes,  re- 
minded one  disgustingly  of  a  drowned  rat.  He  was 
accompanied  by  a  person  yet  more  insignificant,  a  per- 
son in  dandruff-sprinkled  black,  who  had  a  corn-husk 
cigarette  thrust  handily  over  one  ear  and  a  ragged 

178 


THE   DOZING  COLOSSUS  OF  RHODES     179 

blank  book  clutched  importantly  in  one  hand.  We 
were  not  long  in  discovering  that  he  was  a  commis- 
sariat clerk. 

I  got  to  my  feet,  supposing  they  had  come  for  me,  but 
I  might  have  known  that  that  could  not  be,  else  the 
dear  old  lady  would  not  have  admitted  them  so  readily. 

"They're  only  taking  the  inventory,"  she  explained. 

But  the  pomaded  lieutenant  resented  her  off-hand 
tone  as  lacking  in  awe  for  his  high  duties.  "Si,senora," 
he  spoke  up  offensively,  "an  inventory  of  all  that  one 
possesses,  that  he  or  she  may  pay  one  per  cent,  on 
the  total  every  twenty  days  for  war  taxes.  But  you, 
senora,  have  not  done  sent  in  your  inventory,  and  you 
must  therefore  pay  three  per  cent,  and  costs.  This 
bed  now,"  and  he  nodded  to  the  dingy  black  crow  of  a 
commissariat  clerk,  "oh,  put  it  down  at  a  hundred 
re  ales." 

The  crude  old  four-poster  that  had  been  my  comfort 
was  not  worth  half  as  much,  but  these  harpies  were 
bent  on  tortuous  confiscation.  I  was  so  bitten  with 
the  injustice  of  it,  yet  so  helpless,  that  I  would  have 
forgiven  even  Mr.  Gritton  any  source  of  influence  to 
drive  them  out. 

"Neither,  senora''  the  greasy  officer  accused  her 
solemnly,  as  of  high  treason,  "have  you  yet  sent  us 
your  first  janega  of  corn." 

Then  Nan  entered.  Nan  was  in  filmy  blue,  and  there 
were  white  satin  slippers  whose  ribbons  crossed  over  her 
ankles.  Also,  the  roses  flushed  red  under  the  tan  of 
her  cheeks,  but  the  exuberance  of  life  changed  to  a 
contemptuous  quivering  of  the  nostrils  as  she  tossed 
aside  her  bonnet  and  surveyed  the  intruders.  It  was 
easy  to  understand  why  Old  Man  Buckalew  uncon- 
sciously accepted  her  as  the  generalissimo  of  the 
family. 


i8o  THE  LONE  STAR 

"Corn?"  she  repeated.  "But  we  feed  beggars, 
senores,  at  the  back  door." 

The  frowsy  little  officer  and  the  frowsy  little  clerk 
quailed  visibly  before  the  black-eyed  maid.  Yet  the 
odour  of  unclean  flesh  emanating  from  the  squad  at 
their  backs  was  for  them  the  celestial  breath  of  courage. 
Subtly,  too,  it  buoyed  them  to  the  height  of  desire. 
You  could  read  their  filthy  little  souls  in  their  eyes  as 
they  looked  on  the  girl. 

"Yes,  senorita  mia,  corn,"  said  the  drowned  rat,  emu- 
lating a  dashing  winsomeness,  "and  it  must  be  ground, 
also.  But  the  old  senora  shall  relieve  you  of  that 
labour."  Indian-like,  he  did  not  once  connect  me,  a 
man,  with  the  grinding  of  corn. 

Nan  had  some  trouble  getting  his  preposterous  mean- 
ing into  her  head.  But  slowly  the  red  spread  to  her 
temples,  and  over  her  brow  to  the  roots  of  her  hair, 
where  the  skin  was  purest  white.  Mrs.  Long  drew 
near  her,  and  touched  her  arm  timidly,  pacifyingly, 
as  I  had  seen  Nan's  father  do  once  before.  Nan  did 
not  have  the  pistol  at  her  girdle  now,  being  a  young 
lady  grown,  but  the  hand  of  the  arm  that  Mrs.  Long 
laid  hold  on  so  anxiously  was  at  her  bosom,  hidden  in 
the  folds  of  her  dress. 

As  for  myself,  I  forgot  that  I  was  as  weak  as  a 
kitten,  yet  I  had  no  weapon,  and  was  entirely  at  sea 
besides.  Romantic  imagination  would  prescribe  some- 
thing decisive  as  due  from  me,  but  what?  The  question 
found  no  answer.  It  was  the  more  galling,  too,  that 'the 
damsel  in  the  case  was  so  self-sufficient;  and  more 
galling  yet  when  Mr.  Gritton  sauntered  in  just  then 
and  took  the  whole  matter  on  his  own  shoulders. 

As  lethargic  as  ever,  the  Briton  was  yet  comprehended 
into  the  situation  as  understandingly  as  though  he  had 
been  there  from  the  first.  He  even  read  rightly  the 


THE  DOZING  COLOSSUS  OF  RHODES      181 

prurient  thirst  in  the  rat's  beady  eyes,  in  the  dingy 
crow's  restive  breathing;  not  that  he  roused  himself 
to  indignation,  but  propped  on  his  outspread  legs  in  the 
manner  of  a  dozing  Rhodesian  Colossus,  his  right  elbow 
in  his  left  hand,  his  right  thumb  and  forefinger  thus 
held  up  to  their  task  of  nursing  the  golden  moustache, 
he  stared  sleepily  on  a  line  with  the  two  dignitaries,  as 
though  they  were  curiosities  possibly,  and  he  would 
concentrate  his  attention  on  them  now  directly  to  make 
quite  sure  about  it. 

"Oh,  ah,  these  men,"  and  he  sniffed  painfully,  lifting 
his  chin  to  indicate  the  redolent  squad. 

"It  is  no  use,  senor,"  said  the  lieutenant,  "we  know 
now  that  you  are  no  longer  secretary  to  Colonel 
Almonte." 

"But  these  men?"  said  Mr.  Gritton  faintly. 

"No  use,  I  say.  You  are  no  longer  secretary  to 
Colonel  Almonte." 

Mr.  Gritton  changed  his  right  hand  to  his  left  elbow, 
and  stroked  the  golden  harp  with  the  left  thumb 
and  forefinger. 

"Ah?"  he  said.  "But—"  His  mind  was  still  on  the 
afflictive  squad. 

"No  longer  secretary  to  Colonel  Almonte,"  mumbled 
the  lieutenant. 

"Now  re-ahly,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Gritton 
wearily,  "is  that  any  reason  why  you  should  not  post- 
pone this-ah — domiciliary  visit  until  to-morrow?" 

His  logic  was  irresistible.  Drowned  rat  and  dingy 
crow  turned  to  leave. 

"But  ah,  these  men?"  said  Mr.  Gritton,  fearing  the 
squad  would  be  left  behind  like  a  forgotten  package. 
But  he  did  not  uproot  his  legs  as  the  lieutenant  pointed 
to  the  door  with  his  sword,  and  they  all  filed  out.  He 
was  oblivious  to  them  henceforth. 


1 8a  THE  LONE  STAR 

"But  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Long,  "to-morrow  they 
will  come  again." 

"And  they  can  postpone  it  again,  I  reckon,"  said  Nan. 

"Oh  I'm  afraid  they  won't,  dear.  They  might  not 
listen  to  Mr.  Gritton  a  second  time,  now  that  they've 
found  him  out.  And  who  knows,  their  next  insult " 

But  she  had  no  need  to  go  on.  We  all  knew  what  turn 
the  next  insult  might  take. 

"Why,"  I  asked,  "why  can't  you  leave  this  place 
to-night?" 

"Ha,  that's  a  jolly  idea,  y'  know,"  said  Gritton, 
shaking  a  pinch  of  snuff  a  careful  distance  from  his 
dazzling  vest.  "What  I  should  propose  myself,  if-ah," 
he  added  concisely,  "I  had  thought  of  it." 

"But,"  protested  Mrs.  Long,  "Harry  is  too  weak 
yet  to " 

"We'll  not  go,"  declared  Nan. 

There  was  just  so  much  emotion  as  a  quick  little 
scowl  of  impatience  between  Gritton's  bulby  eyes. 

"If  you  don't  go,"  I  announced,  "then  I'll — I'll  give 
myself  up  at  the  fort." 

The  Englishman  wheeled  and  stared  at  me  gloomily. 
Well,  after  all,  it  was  a  silly  declaration,  because  if  they 
wanted  me  at  the  fort,  they  knew  where  I  was,  and  had 
only  to  come  after  me. 

"De-uh  me,  it's  a  triviality." — But  whether  Gritton 
meant  me  or  their  objection  to  going,  I  am  not  certain — 
"Our  young  friend  will  not  be  disturbed,  I  assure  you. 
I  gave  them  his  name,  y'  see,  and  they  know  that  His 
Excellency  has  further — ah — use  for  him." 

"I'll  risk  that,"  I  retorted,  "and  meantime  I'll  accept 
His  Excellency's  protection  while  these  two  women 
get  clear  of  His  Excellency's  soldiers." 

Mr.  Gritton  rather  imagined  that  he  could  buy 
up  the  sentinels,  and  the  next  day  he  and  the  two  women 


THE  DOZING  COLOSSUS  OF  RHODES     183 

would  be  safe  among  the  settlements.  Also,  the  while 
regarding  Nan  appreciatively,  he  volunteered  to  escort 
them  there.  Then  Mrs.  Long,  with  a  terror  of  drowned 
rats  and  black  crows  on  the  girl's  account,  overcame 
every  remaining  objection. 

The  matter  was  no  sooner  decided  than  Nan,  in  her 
own  eager,  self-reliant  way,  began  getting  ready  to  leave. 
I,  using  a  cane,  hobbled  around  the  house  after  her, 
trying  to  keep  her  in  sight,  for  it  loomed  up  as  important 
that  I  should  see  a  great  deal  of  her  now,  since  she  was 
going  away  that  very  evening,  and  when  we  should 
meet  again  looked  more  indefinite  than  most  things 
even  in  Texas.  The  Rhodesian  Colossus  planted  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  watched  her  too  from  under 
his  long  sandy  lashes,  while  she  and  Mrs.  Long  filled 
their  saddle  bags  with  corn  pone  and  tasso.  It  never 
occurred  to  him  to  help  them,  except  when  it  occurred 
to  Nan,  and  then  she  would  bring  him  out  of  his  trance 
in  mighty  quick  time. 

"Oh,  I  nearly  forgot,"  she  cried;  and  rushed  into  the 
kitchen.  She  came  back  filling  a  deerskin  wallet  with 
the  bullets  she  had  moulded.  "Now  then,  under  the 
feather-bed  they  go,"  and  I  helped  her  tuck  the  bag 
away.  "When  Daddy  comes,"  she  whispered  to  me, 
"you  give  them  to  him." 

They  were  to  set  out  at  nightfall.  Mr.  Gritton,  in 
scarlet  coat  et  al. — which  no  one  could  admire  in  the 
darkness,  though  that  made  not  the  least  difference 
to  him — stopped  before  the  house  with  pack  horses  and 
mules  and  a  retinue  of  servants.  The  retinue  loaded 
chests  and  baskets  on  the  animals  by  the  light  of 
torches,  and  the  town's  population  gathered  round, 
and  altogether  it  was  a  very  queer  manner  of  stealthy 
escape.  But  Mr.  Gritton,  as  usual,  was  unaware  of  the 
earth's  being  inhabited.  He  merely  sat  on  his  horse, 


i84  THE  LONE  STAR 

combed  his  moustache  with  the  ivory  handle  of  his 
crop,  and  waited.  I  and  a  servant  helped  Mrs.  Long  to 
her  big  rocking-chair  description  of  a  Mexican  saddle, 
while  Nan  jumped  into  hers,  which  was  silver-mounted 
and  had  a  bear  skin  for  a  blanket.  I  remember  Mrs. 
Long  putting  her  hand  on  my  bare  head  in  farewell, 
though  not  what  she  said,  but  I  do  remember  all  that 
Nan  said,  which  was  no  more  than:  "Now  don't  get 
careless,  Harry,  and  let  them  hurt  you."  But  she 
said  it  in  that  softer  voice  of  hers  that  I  had  heard  the 
other  afternoon  when  I  keeled  over. 

"No  fear,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Buckalew,"  said  Gritton, 
peering  for  a  glimpse  of  the  face  set  so  alluringly  deep 
in  her  bonnet.  "No  fear,  re-ahly.  The  long  tentacle 
for  the — ah — for  the  present,  wraps  our  young  friend 
as  snug  as  a  baby  in  a  sheepskin." 

"Mr.  Gritton,"  I  began  hotly,  resolved  to  make  him 
address  me  personally,  or  else  not  refer  to  me  at  all, 
but  Nan  had  her  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"Harry,  Harry,"  she  scolded  gently. 

Was  it  a  kindly  warning  that  I  made  but  a  wry  figure 
at  repartee,  or  did  her  half-laugh,  and  half-tender  it  was 
too,  mean  that  she  thought  I  was  jealous?  But  one  or 
the  other,  or  both,  this  Briton  would  have  to  admit  yet 
that  I  did  exist.  It  was  not  too  much  to  expect  of  one's 
fellow  man. 

And,  as  if  in  answer  to  that  thought,  as  well  as  in 
farewell,  she  said,  "Another  time,  Harry,  another  time." 
With  which  she  jerked  her  bridle  a  little,  and  her  horse 
obediently  clattered  away  down  the  narrow  street.  The 
rest  of  the  cavalcade  went  clattering  behind  her,  and 
when  only  the  torches  could  be  seen,  I  turned  back  into 
the  lonely  house.with  nothing  to  do  but  wait  and  test  the 
protective  qualities  of  the  long  tentacle;  or  better,  to 
think  on  a  face  set  alluringly  deep  in  a  flowered  bonnet. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

TAKING    INVENTORY 

NOW  I  should  like  to  hurry  to  where  we  shall  see 
Nan  again,  just  as  at  the  time  I  tried  to  galvanise 
the  leaden  hours  into  chariot  steeds  for  exactly  the  same 
purpose.  But  hours  spiced  with  leaden  bullets  may 
not  be  lightly  skipped,  and  besides,  as  Old  Man  Buckalew 
says,  they  are  heaps  more  enjoyable  as  a  reminiscence. 
Alone  in  the  old  clean  house,  I  barred  the  street  door, 
and  wished  for  company.  Even  L'fitte  would  have 
seemed  a  crowd,  and  Lagniappe  a  multitude.  I  prac- 
tised walking  up  and  down  through  the  rooms,  to  see  if 
I  could  do  without  my  cane.  It  was  physical  pleasure 
to  feel  the  blood  coursing  warmly,  and  to  imagine  it 
permeating  every  tissue  with  strength  and  life.  After- 
ward I  slept  luxuriously  till  morning,  only  to  turn  over 
and  sleep  more  luxuriously  yet,  with  conscience  at  ease 
in  the  assurance  that  the  longer  I  dozed  the  more  time 
the  vital  fluid  would  have  to  build  and  repair.  But 
hunger  got  me  up  at  last.  The  blood,  you  see,  needed 
replenishment  for  its  blessed  alchemy,  and  never  was 
a  debt  of  gratitude  paid  with  more  liking.  Those  were 
mighty  good  biscuits  that  Mrs.  Long  had  left,  requiring 
only  to  be  heated,  and  they  went  prime  with  bacon  and 
eggs  and  coffee,  and  then  with  golden-drip  molasses. 
Pedestrianism  and  delicious  cat-naps  alternated  through- 
out the  rest  of  the  day,  and  after  stoking  up  the  faithful 
blood  again  at  supper  time,  I  was  beginning  to  feel  that 
better  than  bed,  better  than  biscuits,  would  be  a  race 

185 


186  THE  LONE  STAR 

like  the  wind  astride  my  horse,  or  a  wrestling  bout  in 
some  mighty  cause,  or  any  other  brave  tonic.  And 
then  the  pommel  of  a  sword  crashed  against  the  front 
door,  and  there  were  the  filthy-souled  lieutenant,  the 
filthy-souled  clerk,  and  their  purveyors  of  Dutch  cour- 
age, the  ethereally  scented  squad. 

"The  inventory,"  explained  the  drowned  rat,  and  in 
they  shuffled. 

They  took  no  notice  that  Nan  was  not  there.  Of 
course,  they  must  have  known  of  her  flight,  and  so  they 
had  eaten  out  their  chagrin,  and  bowed  to  events  with 
the  servility  they  gave  to  all  things  superior,  which  were 
very  many  indeed. 

I  followed  them  as  they  went  through  the  house  about 
their  work,  and  my  craving  for  exercise  grew  to  a  passion, 
taking  the  form  of  wondering  what  kind  of  an  explosion 
would  result  if  the  skull  of  a  drowned  rat  and  the  skull 
of  a  dingy  crow  were  knocked  together.  For  me  this 
was  a  daring  fancy,  but  then,  they  had  looked  at  Nan. 

Taking  inventory  was  only  perfunctory  now.  Evi- 
dently they  had  something  weightier  on  their  minds. 
At  last  the  crow  pecked  down  the  last  item  in  his  ragged 
blank  book,  and  then  the  rat,  with  a  relish  that  was 
inexpressibly  mean,  said: 

"Now,  compadre,  for  the  bullets!" 

They  meant  Nan's  little  contribution  to  the  cause  of 
Texas.  There  had  been  spies  hovering  near  the  windows, 
they  said,  and  they  had  seen  her  hide  a  wallet  filled  with 
bullets.  On  discovery  of  the  contraband  the  intruders 
would  confiscate  everything  in  the  house,  and  that  signi- 
fied prize  money  for  them.  The  lieutenant  came  to  the 
bed,  and  lifted  the  corner  of  the  mattress.  All  at  once 
there  was  something  pathetic  in  the  absent  girl  and  the 
widow  being  despoiled  of  the  mite  they  gave  for  our 
freedom,  but  not  knowing  how  to  protest  adequately, 


TAKING  INVENTORY  187 

I  simply  sat  down  hard  on  the  bed.  The  lieutenant 
jerked  back  his  hand,  grabbed  up  his  precious  sword, 
and  demanded  what  I  meant. 

"I — I  think  I'm  tired,"  and  I  fetched  a  sigh  of  utter 
weariness,  or  of  pain  from  newly  healed  wounds,  as 
you  may  prefer.  Now  was  a  fair  chance  to  test  the 
benevolence  of  devilfish. 

And  certainly  an  invisible  tentacle  reached  from  the 
Palacio  in  Mexico  across  sierras  and  valleys  and  deserts 
and  plains,  and  into  this  room,  and  held  back  the  sword 
at  my  breast.  The  rat  knew  a  change  in  his  little  mur- 
derous oyster  of  a  heart. 

"Do  you  mean,  senor,"  he  cried,  "do  you  mean  that 
you  wish  to  faint?  But  have  the  goodness,  senor,  not 
there!  No,  be  not  that  inconsiderate! " 

But  as  I  gave  signs  of  being  even  that  inconsiderate, 
the  ethereal  perfumers  were  called  into  requisition. 
Two  caught  hold  of  each  wrist,  and  pulled.  I  laid  my 
weight  back  on  the  bed,  and  they  pulled  harder.  They 
pulled  too  hard,  for  I  landed  abruptly  on  my  feet,  and 
they  all  sprawled  over  on  the  floor. 

The  watery  oyster  heart  instantly  spelled  Murder  into 
Justification,  and  at  me  its  possessor  came  with  his 
sword.  But  I  grabbed  the  blade,  and  kicked  him  a 
handsome  one  on  the  shin,  so  that  he  let  go.  I  had  a 
vague  idea  of  spanking  him  next,  being  in  too  great  a 
huff  to  think  of  what  the  squad  might  do  meantime,  but 
there  was  a  furtive  rapping  at  the  door,  and  who  should 
steal  in  but  Old  Man  Buckalew  and  two  other  Americans; 
which  naturally  laid  over  the  spanking  and  my  own 
killing  as  unfinished  business. 

The  newcomers  had  their  rifles  at  their  hips,  but  that 
was  not  necessary.  The  sweat  rolled  out  from  the 
lieutenant's  oily  hair,  and  the  little  clerk  thrust  his 
lighted  cigarette  behind  his  ear,  and  had  a  chill  in  his 


i88  THE  LONE  STAR 

dingy  black  coat  until  the  cigarette  burned  him,  when 
he  let  out  a  terrific  howl,  thinking  he  was  killed  already. 
The  squad  merely  waited  stolidly  for  their  leader  to 
order  them  to  shoot,  and  be  killed.  But  their  leader 
entertained  no  such  phantasy. 

"Where's  Nan?"  demanded  Buckalew.  "Where's — 
W'y,  if  there  ain't  young  Rip!  Quick,  tell  me,  boy, 
Where's  the  girl?  Where's  Nan?" 

I  told  him  as  fast  as  I  could,  for  he  already  had  a 
strand  of  his  shaggy  moustache  doubled  between  his 
teeth,  and  the  mild  hazel  eyes  behind  the  tortoise-shell 
spectacles  were  piteous  in  their  anxiety. 

"And,"  I  added,  bringing  forth  the  wallet  of  bullets, 
"here's  a  keepsake  she  left  for  you." 

"Ha,  bless  the  little  catamou't!"  and  he  held  the 
prize  aloft  as  though  it  were  a  sack  of  gold.  "Ha,  that 
girl  of  mine,  she  knows  that  a  scrape  without  bullets 
is  like  roast  pork  and  no  apple  sauce.  Here,  Ben, 
you  shall  have  them,  and  now  you  can  lead  the  chorus." 

The  man  he  called  Ben  was  woefully  haggard  and 
ragged.  The  gray  dust  of  the  mesquite  flats  caked  on 
his  fleshless  chest  and  limbs  was  streaked  with  the  dried 
blood  brought  by  cacti  thorns.  His  wrists  and  bare 
ankles  showed  the  callous  grooves  left  by  chains.  He 
was  hollow-eyed,  his  cheeks  were  sunken,  his  body 
emaciated,  but  his  heavy  brows  were  the  brows  of  an 
indomitable  man.  Even  in  his  wretched  state  the  mouth 
was  dimpled  in  and  upward  at  the  corners  as  if  he  were 
waiting  for  the  point  of  a  good  story  to  laugh  outright. 
He  wore  Buckalew's  cape  coat,  and  in  that  he  looked 
the  toughened  military  veteran. 

"For  you,  Ben,"  repeated  Buckalew,  making  him  take 
the  wallet.  "Lordy,  though,  wouldn't  your  jailer 
friends  back  in  Monterey  feel  good  if  they  knew  you 
had  a  gun  this  minute  and  some  of  Nan's  pills!  Now 


TAKING  INVENTORY  189 

wouldn't  they,  and  that  in  ten  minutes  more  you'll 
be  whooping  it  against  their  old  Goliad  rockpile!  Bully 
for  the  little  catamou't — You're  sure  she's  safe,  Rip?" 

He  wanted  to  be  crusty,  but  his  high  state  of  excite- 
ment was  too  much  for  him.  The  third  man,  a  settler 
in  buckskin  and  moccasins  from  Matagorda,  was  just 
as  bad,  and  their  spirits  were  so  infectious  that  I  began 
to  get  excited  with  them.  There  was  grim  purpose  at 
bottom,  but  there  was  joy  too,  and  that  was  centred 
in  the  haggard,  indomitable  man  called  Ben.  Every 
minute  Buckalew  called  him  Ben  again,  to  make  real 
sure  that  he  was  there,  and  if  Buckalew  had  been  a 
Frenchman,  he  must  have  hugged  Ben  in  the  way  of 
climax  to  each  attack. 

"Now  then,"  he  grumbled,  as  hearty  and  crabbed  and 
whole-souled  as  could  be,  "we  know  about  Nan,  so  let's 
get  to  work.  Here's  young  Rip,  and  he'll  come  too,  and 
that'll  make  us  forty-eight  altogether." 

I  knew  their  errand,  but  I  recoiled.  Did  he  mean,  I 
asked,  that  forty-eight  of  us  were  going  to  assault  that 
massive-walled  fortress  on  the  hill  in  which  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  Americans  had  once  held  off  two  thousand 
Spaniards? 

"That  don't  noways  matter,"  exclaimed  the  old  fellow, 
sniffing  derision,  "for  wasn't  Ben  with  us  on  the  inside 
then?  And  ain't  he  with  us  on  the  outside  now?  Here, 
you  may  tan  my  ear — choice  of  ears  too — for  a  sow's 
purse  if  Ben  don't  take  us  slap  dash  right  in,  lock,  stock, 
and  barrel!" 

Faith,  in  that  humour  he  alone  would  have  been 
enough  for  the  massive-walled  fort! 

"And  contrary -wise,"  he  added,  his  eyes  twinkling 
craftily,  "Ben  can  get  outside  same  as  he  gets  inside, 
like  this  last  time  at  Monterey,  eh  Ben?  Oh  he  ain't 
any  fly  in  a  tar  pot,  that  can't  get  out,  are  you,  Ben? 


i9o  THE  LONE  STAR 

I  tell  you  what,  Ben,"  he  cried,  giving  way  to  another 
attack  on  his  old  crony,  "we're  sure  tickled  plaguy  well 
to  death  over  finding  you.  But  I  can't  believe  it  yet. 
I  can't,  Ben,  honest!" 

Ben,  Ben,  Ben!  Who  was  Ben,  anyhow?  The  Mata- 
gorda  man's  face  also  glowed  for  Ben.  And  Ben's 
mouth,  turning  up  at  the  corners,  changed  the  suffering 
in  Ben's  gaunt  features  to  boyish  fun  and  daredeviltry. 
But  who  was  he?  Who  could  he  be? 

"W'y  here,  young  Rip,"  said  Buckalew  querulously, 
"you  don't  seem  to  appreciate  that  this  is  Colonel  Ben 
Milam  right  in  front  of  you.  Make  you  acquainted." 

Then  I  understood,  and  wondered  no  longer.  I  was 
not  hardened  even  yet  to  meeting  my  childhood's  heroes 
in  the  flesh  and  blood,  and  my  emotions  were  keen  as 
I  gazed  on  the  actual  living  Ben  Milam.  With  his  own 
Kentuckians  Milam  fought  through  the  War  of,  1812. 
Also  he  had  fought  through  the  wars  for  Mexican  inde- 
pendence. And  this  was  his  reward,  the  marks  of  chains. 
During  twenty  years  he  had  languished  in  nearly  every 
prison  from  the  Inquisition  to  the  Rio  Grande,  all  because 
he  would  not  accept  riches  from  this  or  that  despot. 
More  recently  General  Cos  had  found  him  in  Coahuila, 
and  imprisoned  him  at  Monterey.  But  he  had  escaped, 
as  usual,  skulking  by  night  through  hundreds  of  miles  of 
scrub-oak  desert,  and  just  this  very  night  the  men  with 
Buckalew  had  found  him  crouching  miserably  in  the 
cacti  near  Goliad.  Milam  thought  at  first  that  they  were 
Mexicans,  but  a  spoken  word  in  the  dark  gave  him  to 
understand  that  they  were  his  own  people. 

"Now  Buck,"  said  Milam,  smiling  tolerantly  on  his 
old  friend,  "we  came,  you  know,  to  get  a  guide  that 
knows  the  lay  of  the  fort  and  how  they're  fixed  up  there 
since  our  day.  Who'll  we  get?" 

We  pondered  dubiously. 


TAKING  INVENTORY  igi 

"Here,"  I  said,  "what's  the  matter  with  the  drowned 
rat?" 

"Who?"  they  asked,  and  I  nodded  to  the  perspiring 
lieutenant. 

"But  he's  a  Mexican.  Look  at  his  uniform,"  the 
Matagorda  man  objected. 

"Don't  matter,"  said  Milam.  "Young  Rip  is  right. 
I  know  young  Rip  must  be  right,  having  known  his 
father.  We'll  take  the  Mexican.  You  can  see  with  one 
hand  tied  behind  you  that  he  don't  want  to  be  shot,  and 
he'll  be  our  guide.  So  come  along — uh — Ratsy." 

And  Lieutenant  Ratsy  was  drafted  forthwith. 

Books  and  imagination,  but  I  am  long  on  poetic 
justice!  They  would  scare  him  into  it,  in  the  very  way 
the  devilfish  proposed  that  I  should  be  made  useful. 
As  Davy  Crockett  might  say,  it  was  beating  'em  with 
their  own  cudgel. 

"Now  Ratsy,"  and  Milam  took  him  by  the  neck  and 
lifted  him  from  the  floor.  The  lieutenant's  little  eyes 
Were  bobbing  like  buoys  in  the  streaming  sweat  of  his 
face,  and  in  terror  he  dropped  his  sword. 

"There,  there,"  said  Milam,  "pick  up  your  toy.  We 
shall  want  you  to  salute  the  pickets  with  it  on  the  way. 
And  you,  young  Rip,  where's  your  gun?" 

"They  took  it,  colonel,  as  soon  as  I  reached  town." 

Milam's  dark  brows  knitted  impatiently.  Why  explain 
so  much,  when  I  had  only  to  help  myself  from  the  car- 
bines of  the  Mexican  squad,  who  were  already  disarmed? 

"Ready,  boys?"  and  Milam's  voice  was  ringing, 
inspiriting. 

He  led  the  way,  and  stealthily  we  crept  through  the 
dark  ravine-like  alleys  of  the  town,  and  on  down  to  the 
river  by  the  ford,  where  in  the  trees  and  brush  the  others 
of  the  forty -eight  were  waiting  for  us. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    WATERY    OYSTER    HEART 

THERE  was  plenty  of  noise,  a  glorious  infernal  din. 
Muskets  cracked  on  every  side,  and  there  were 
blinding  flashes  in  the  dark,  and  yells,  and  shrieks  for 
mercy.  History  has  not  made  too  much  of  that  night  by 
any  means.  But  allowing  for  the  sheer  daring — and  the 
daring  of  it  was  the  Big  Thing — once  allowing  for  that, 
and  the  rest  came  easy.  Not  a  Texan  there  would  care 
to  boast  of  it,  and  yet  one  feels  good  to  have  History 
come  out  so  handsomely  about  it  afterward.  But  you 
see,  the  Big  Thing,  the  daring,  was  lacking  on  the  other 
side,  and  in  spite  of  odds  and  thick  stone  walls,  we  could 
not  help  but  feel  that  somehow  or  somewhere — we  did 
not  know  exactly  what — but  that  somehow  we  had  the 
advantage. 

It  was  an  experience  for  me  all  right,  that  stealing 
around  the  edge  of  town,  and  climbing  the  hill,  and 
lastly  the  pause  under  the  walls  in  the  silent  night  just 
before  Hell  broke  loose.  If  our  fellows  had  known  of 
my  convalescent  state,  they  would  have  counted  me  in 
with  the  group  that  stayed  behind  at  the  ford  to  guard 
the  horses  and  Ratsy's  inventory  squad.  But  though  I 
anticipated  exactly  how  I  should  feel  during  the  tense 
perilous  moments  of  that  harrowing  attack  in  the  dark, 
yet  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  reveal  the  newly  healed 
slash  in  my  side.  If  I  were  brave,  I  might  have  done  so. 
But  I  was  not  brave  enough.  For  I  knew,  or  feared, 
that  my  motive  would  be  to  evade  my  part  in  the  night's 
business,  and  that  they  would  think  so  too. 

192 


THE  WATERY  OYSTER  HEART  193 

Hence  it  happened  that  even  I  was  one  of  that  hand- 
ful of  Texans  to  creep  up  Goliad  hill  that  night,  but 
wishing,  just  the  same,  that  the  October  Gulf  breeze 
were  a  mite  colder  on  my  brow,  for  the  sweat  was  there, 
though  once  my  teeth  chattered.  "Now  will  you  stop 
it!"  I  hissed  fiercely,  and  clenched  my  jaws  hard  and 
tight.  But  frailty  like  that  made  me»  kinder,  and  I 
pitied  poor  Ratsy,  who  tottered  between  Milam  and 
Buckalew,  with  a  pistol  at  his  head.  I  envied  the 
buoyant  eagerness  in  the  puffing  of  the  men  around  me, 
especially  in  those  two  old  cronies,  Milam  and  Buckalew. 
Fifteen  years  ago,  previous  to  being  besieged  by  the  Span- 
iards, they  had  scaled  this  very  hill  for  this  very  purpose, 
except  that  they  were  doing  it  then  for  the  Mexicans 
whom  now  they  had  to  fight.  But  these  two  had  no 
such  thoughts. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Ben,"  Buckalew  was  chatting  away 
in  a  low  tone,  "  I  had  the  biggest  yield  this  fall!  When 
once  you  get  hold  o'  the  right  seed  cawn " 

"For  God's  sake",  shut  up  back  there,"  our  captain 
whispered  savagely. 

"Oh  you  go  to  the  devil,  George,"  Buckalew  retorted, 
and  men  laughed  softly  at  both  him  and  the  captain, 
and  neither  got  mad. 

We  reached  the  summit  without  an  alarm  or  challenge, 
and  drew  up  before  the  heavy  wooden  doors  of  the  old 
mission  church.  This  church  was  built  into  the  fortifica- 
tions, with  a  bastion  at  each  corner,  and  through  it  one 
gained  entrance  to  the  compound  and  barracks  within. 
That  was  the  intensest  moment  of  all,  that  moment  in 
front  of  the  church,  under  the  cross  we  could  not  see. 
The  dead  quiet  and  black  of  midnight  contrasted 
terrifyingly  with  the  half-acknowledged  certainty  that 
cannon,  like  sluggish  monsters,  thrust  their  muzzles  at  us 
over  the  battlements ;  that  just  within,  quietly  dreaming 


i94  THE  LONE  STAR 

now,  were  scores  of  armed  Mexicans.  Two  planters 
from  the  banks  of  the  Caney  unslung  their  axes,  and  for 
a  second  held  them  poised.  And  then — and  this  was 
the  worst  of  all  that  night  on  frazzled  nerves — there 
was  that  eternity  of  a  second  before  the  whispered 
command:  "Now!"  Then  the  axes  crashed  into  the 
splintering  wood,  and  with  the  crash  the  thing  was  on. 
But  it  was  relief,  glorious  relief,  the  relief  from  one's 
thoughts.  In  the  uproar  I  cried  at  them  frantically 
to  strike  harder,  harder.  It  infuriated  me  because  the 
doors  would  not  yield  at  once,  and  I  hurled  my  weight 
against  those  doors,  and  beat  at  them  with  my  carbine 
stock,  until  Buckalew  dragged  me  away. 

A  sentinel  yelled  within.  Feet  pattered  across  the 
courtyard.  There  was  a  shot,  then  more  yells  and 
more  shots,  and  steadily  the  din  rose.  At  its 
height  the  doors  fell  in,  and  in  we  pushed  and  scrambled, 
cursing  one  another  to  make  way,  firing  at  flashes,  on 
through  the  church,  on  into  the  great  courtyard,  and 
firing  as  we  came.  Half-dressed  men  dimly  seen  were 
running  everywhere,  blazing  away  at  us,  then  thinking 
better  of  it  and  darting  off,  to  shrink  in  dark  corners, 
or  to  climb  the  walls  and  drop  outside. 

Near  me  I  heard  Milam's  ringing  voice. 

"Here  Ratsy,  where 's    the    commandant's    room?" 

He  had  the  quaking  Ratsy  by  the  collar,  and  a  pistol 

at  his  ear.     What  if  I  were  in  Ratsy 's  place,  what.     .     . 

But  I  prayed  God  to  let  me  die  rather  than  face  a  test 

like  that. 

"Where,  you  toad?" 

"This  way,  senor,"  whined  the  Mexican,  "This  way." 

I  loathed  Ratsy  for  that.  Yet  if  I  were  in 
his  place. 

We  were  at  a  closed  door.  An  axe  swung,  and  down 
went  the  door.  A  candle  flickered  in  the  cell-like  room. 


THE  WATERY  OYSTER  HEART  I95 

and  a  dazed  man  in  shirt  sleeves  was  tying  round  him  the 
red  scarf  of  a  colonel,  forgetting  that  red  scarfs  were  not 
important.  At  sight  of  this  man  something  came  over 
Ratsy.  "My  colonel,"  he  shrieked,  "the  Americans! 
They  are  the  Americans,  my  colonel!"  And  shrieking 
ever,  he  twisted  free,  leaped  ahead,  turned,  and  rushed 
upon  us  with  his  naked  sword.  But  he  fell  at  once, 
blood  besmearing  grease  and  sweat,  stone  dead. 

"Oh!"  gasped  Milam. 

Yet  I  was  glad  that  Ratsy  did  just  that.  I  was 
grateful  to  him  for  it. 

What  followed  was  perfunctory.  We  had  the  fort, 
prisoners,  immense  military  stores,  and  a  beautiful 
view.  We  held  the  gateway  to  Texas,  and  it  had  cost 
us  only  so  many  drops  as  flowed  from  one  grazed  shoulder. 

The  Mexicans,  colonel,  scarf,  captains,  and  all,  were 
locked  in  the  church  and  a  guard  set  over  them,  though 
the  colonel  first  placed  his  cognac  supply  at  our  disposal, 
and  we  toasted  the  night's  work  in  regular  fashion. 
Old  Man  Buckalew  began  pottering  around  among  chests 
and  casks  with  a  forlorn  expression,  and  at  last  con- 
fessed that  just  possibly  he  might  encounter  a  "church- 
warden." What  was  the  sense,  he  grumbled,  of  captur- 
ing a  rockpile  of  Mex'cans  that  didn't  have  a  "church- 
warden" among  them?  But  in  the  end  he  had  recourse 
to  his  saddle  wallet  of  otter  skin,  which  carried  his  steel 
and  flint  and  tobacco,  and  he  drew  from  it  an  old  clay 
pipe  bowl  with  two  inches  of  stem.  This  he  charged 
and  lighted,  and  stretched  himself  on  the  alfalfa  which 
we  had  laid  over  the  courtyard  for  bedding.  Ben  Milam 
joined  him  here.  Milam  had  washed  the  grime  and 
stains  from  his  body,  and  he  had  shaved  and  changed 
his  clothes,  and  now  he  looked  the  gallant  Kentuckian 
that  he  was,  with  the  marks  of  past  suffering  only  giving 
him  greater  distinction,  with  that  boyish  upturn  of  the 


i96  THE  LONE  STAR 

mouth  that  made  him  lovable,  and  with  that  ringing 
timbre  in  his  voice  that  made  men  eager  to  fight,  if  he 
but  led  them.  He  lay  down  on  the  fodder  to  sleep  safely 
for  the  first  time  in  weeks;  and  alfalfa,  he  reckoned, 
was  heaps  better  than  the  chaparral. 

"Twenty  years  of  fighting  for  'em,  Buck,"  he  said, 
' '  and  not  a  red  copper  in  my  pocket. ' '  Absent-mindedly 
he  rubbed  the  livid  scars  on  his  wrists.  "But  no  matter, 
I  paid  myself  back  this  night.  I'm  paid  now.  Good- 
night, then,  old  porcupine,  and  sleep  hearty." 

They  were  soon  breathing  as  deeply  and  peacefully 
as  babes,  while  I  was  yet  all  excitement.  But  I  lay 
down  too,  and  then  my  muscles,  my  very  heart,  suddenly 
relaxed,  and  I  perceived  that  I  was  dead  tired. 

The  light  of  day  was  yet  a  gray  mist  within  the  high 
old  walls  when  I  opened  my  eyes  to  see  Milam  and 
Buckalew  pulling  on  their  boots,  and  our  men  bending 
over  fires  getting  breakfast. 

"I'm  'most  afraid,"  Milam  was  saying,  "that  Austin 
will  bag  General  Cos  at  San  Antone  before  we  get  there, 
and  I'd  like  real  well  to  officiate,  seeing  how  the  Cuss 
bagged  me  in  Coahuila." 

Old  Man  Buckalew  sniffed  through  his  pugnacious  nose. 

"But  there's  Nan,  Ben,"  he  objected.  "First off,  I've 
got  to  see  if  she's  safe  at  Gonzales." 

"Sure  you  do.  And  besides,  the  rest  of  us  will  have 
to  stay  here  and  hold  the  fort." 

"Not  I,  Colonel,  I  hope,"  I  broke  in  on  them.  "I— 
that  is — well,  I'd  like  to  go  along  with  Mr.  Buckalew." 

The  old  man  blinked  at  me  behind  the  tortoise-shells, 
and  Milam  looked  whimsically  first  at  one  and  then  the 
other  of  us. 

"By  the  way,  Buck,"  he  said,  "that  little  wildcat 
you've  harboured  all  these  years,  she  must  be  a  spank- 
ing fine  young  lady  by  now,  eh?" 


THE  WATERY  OYSTER  HEART  197 

"Ask  him"  said  Buck,  jerking  his  head  at  me,  "he 
saw  her  last." 

The  old  fellow  must  have  satisfied  any  remaining 
doubts  with  that,  for  of  course  I  had  to  turn  as  red  as 
possible,  a  very  painful  turkey-red  before  those  two 
sharp  pairs  of  eyes. 

An  earthquake  would  have  proved  welcome  interrup- 
tion, but  an  invasion  at  that  moment  answered  as  well. 
The  invaders  were  being  greeted  most  jubilantly,  too. 
They  were  one  hundred  more  Texans,  who  had  been 
detached  from  our  little  Army  of  the  People  at  Gon- 
zales.  They  had  marched  south  to  repel  an  attack  on 
Victoria,  but  the  Mexicans  not  waiting  for  them  to  arrive, 
they  had  come  on  to  help  take  Goliad,  and  very  glum 
they  were  to  find  that  they  were  just  too  late.  They 
quickly  shook  off  the  dumps,  however,  with  trying  to 
shake  off  the  bony  hand  of  Ben  Milam. 

"You  fellows  from  Gonzales,  you  say?"  asked  Bucka- 
lew.  "Then  maybe  you  passed  my  daughter  Nan  on 
the  way  down?" 

They  caught  the  anxious  note  in  the  query,  but  could 
only  shake  their  heads. 

Buckalew  began  strapping  on  his  pistols.  "And  them 
Mex'cans,  which  way  did  they  go  from  Victoria? " 

"Wy,  back  to  San  Antone,  of  course." 

"Then  they've  got  her,  that's  all!  And  Mrs.  Long, 
too!" 

"Well,  and  what  then?  Mexicans  aren't  Indians, 
Buck,  and  women  won't  be  hurt." 

"And,"  said  another,  "ain't  we  going  to  San  Antone 
next,  and  won't  we  find  'em?" 

"But  Cos  is  there,"  groaned  the  old  man.  "And 
Cos  is  father-in-law  or  something  to  that  dam'  Sant' 
Ana." 

"  Sakes  alive,  man,  what's  that  got  to  do  with  it? " 


1 98  THE  LONE  STAR 

But  Milam  took  Buckalew  by  the  arm  and  drew  him 
into  the  seclusion  of  a  cannon  port.  On  the  way  he 
looked  back,  and  nodded  for  me  to  join  them. 

"Now,"  he  said,  when  we  three  were  out  of  hearing, 
"what  on  earth  can  Sant'  Ana  have  to  do  with  all  this? 
He's  off  in  Mexico." 

"But  he  got  me  on  the  list  just  the  same,"  said  Buck- 
alew, "and  that  ain't  easy  to  understand  either.  If 
Cos  there  in  San  Antone  should  find  out  who  Nan  is — 
0  Lord,  O  Lord!" 

"Santa  Ana,"  I  interrupted,  for  this  thing  must  be 
told,  "got  it  out  of  me  about  your  still  being  in  Texas, 
and  at  once  he  suspected  that  you  had  been  telling  that 
story  of  yours  about  the  Battle  on  the  Medina,  which 
accounts  for  a  man  like  Santa  Ana  putting  you  on  the 
list." 

"Yes,  yes,  the  story,  you  mean,  about  how  he  took 
me  prisoner,  but" — and  here  Buckalew's  eyes  narrowed 
on  me  with  suspicion — "but  did  your  dam'  Sant'  Ana 
say  anything  about — about  how  I  got  away  from  him? " 

"Not  a  word,  sir." 

He  saw  that  I  was  telling  the  truth,  and  the  savage 
light  so  unusual  in  the  mild  old  eyes  gave  way  to  anguish 
again. 

"Now  by  all  that's  baffling,"  demanded  Milam,  "how 
can  your  getting  away  from  Sant'  Ana  twenty  years  ago 
have  anything  to  do  with  Nan  now,  who  wasn't  even  born 
yet?" 

"Oh  iceep  shut,  Ben!"  snapped  the  old  man,  and 
turned  on  me.  "Well,  well,"  he  fumed,  "and  what  did 
Sant'  Ana  say?" 

"It  was  more  the  way  he  looked,"  I  replied.  "When 
he  recalled  your  name,  and  then  the  story,  he  looked — 
well,  tigerish." 

"And  then?" 


THE  WATERY  OYSTER  HEART  199 

"Why,  after  a  minute  his  expression  changed  again, 
this  time  glossy  and  sensuous  like,  and " 

"Go  on,  boy,  go  on!" 

"And  he  asked  about — about  your  wife." 

For  a  moment  I  thought  Buckalew  would  strike  me. 

"Nan's  mother,"  he  muttered.     "Well,  what  next?" 

"Well,  that's  just  what  I  said,  sir,  when  he  inquired 
about  'the  little  senora?  'You  mean  Nan's  mother?' 
I  asked  him,  for  it  came  naturally,  and  I  couldn't  think 
he  intended  any  harm.  But  then  he  wanted  to  know 
about  Nan  too,  and  if  she  was — was  like  her  mother." 

The  old  man's  teeth  crunched  together  as  of  some  poor 
wretch  in  delirium. 

"Boy,  boy!"  he  groaned.  "But  no,  it's  not  your 
fault.  No,  I  will  know  it  ain't,  when  it's  all  over.  But 
I  can't  forgive  you.  now.  I  can't,  I  can't,  not  until  my 
girl,  not  until  Nan's  mother's  baby  girl  is  in  my  arms 
again. — Lord,  Lord,  and  them  Mex'cans  have  put  back 
for  San  Antone!" 

"There,  there,  Buck,"  said  Milam.  "We're  going  to 
San  Antone  now,  and  as  we  tear  down  the  town,  we'll  get 
her.  And  young  Rip — Buck,  look  at  this  poor  boy,  he's 
that  white,  you'd  think  he'd  stepped  on  his  mother's 
grave — But  he's  going  with  us,  ain't  you,  Rip?" 

I  nodded  tearfully,  gratefully. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

BOUQUETS    WITH    THORNS 

EIGHTY  men  had  to  stay  behind  and  garrison  the 
fort,  though  they  did  not  like  to  a  bit,  and  the 
rest  of  us  started  at  a  gallop  for  San  Antonio  to  join 
Austin  and  the  Army  of  the  People,  who  should  be  there 
by  now  and  besieging  the  town. 

The  next  morning,  while  we  were  still  moving  in  a 
cloud  of  grayish  dust  across  the  plum-coloured  desert, 
with  scrubby  post-oak  and  thorny  nopals  hiding  the 
view,  there  came  to  our  ears  a  faint  booming  sound. 
Men  looked  at  each  other,  and  those  who  had  heard  that 
sound  before  put  spurs  to  their  horses  with  the  eager- 
ness of  children  fearful  of  being  late  for  a  circus.  But 
to  the  rest  of  us  it  was  a  thing  so  often  imagined  as  to 
have  grown  into  a  myth  long  since,  with  no  chance  of 
being  actually  real.  Yet  the  whole  significance  of  which 
that  faint  booming  was  an  epitome  broke  on  me  when 
Nan's  father  turned  in  his  saddle  to  Milam,  and  when 
his  lips  trembled  to  form  words,  and  when  the  words 
came: 

"Nan — Nan  is  there!" 

The  myth  was  real  enough  then.  Where  the  shells 
screeched  in  air,  where  they  fell,  there  Nan  was! 

Whereupon  my  jaded  horse,  and  every  jaded  horse, 
made  thicker  the  choking  dust,  until  little  tufts  of  green 
began  to  dot  the  alkali,  and  the  cacti  fell  away,  and  the 
country  changed  to  an  open  prairie  of  high  waving 
mesquite  grass.  Away  off  to  the  northwest,  where  the 
dancing  heat  waves  marked  a  bend  in  the  little  San 


BOUQUETS  WITH  THORNS  201 

Antonio  River,  we  saw  what  looked  like  a  jumble  of 
coloured  blocks  that  a  child  had  spilt  on  the  skyline. 
Yet  every  once  in  a  while  a  puff  of  cotton-white  burst 
in  midair,  and  there  always  followed  the  booming  sound ; 
only  it  was  no  longer  faint,  but  deep-toned  and  ominous. 
We  were  approaching  a  besieged  city.  The  thing  had 
to  be  credited. 

Buckalew  would  have  kept  straight  on  into  the  town 
itself,  but  while  yet  a  good  distance  away  Milam  turned 
us  from  the  road  toward  an  old  mill  a  half-mile  or  so 
northeast.  Then  we  perceived  that  there  were  little 
white  specks  clustered  around  the  mill,  and  as  we  came 
plunging  through  the  untrodden  grass  we  saw  that  these 
were  tents,  and  that  men,  a  thousand  or  more,  were 
scattered  over  the  plain  there.  They  seemed  to  have 
no  uniforms,  and  the  ruddy  tinge  of  white  men's  blood 
showed  in  their  tanned  necks  and  faces.  They  were  not 
Mexicans.  They  were  Americans. 

They  were  not  fighting  particularly.  They  might 
rather  have  been  lounging  about  in  the  various  lazy 
sports  of  a  picnic.  For  this  was  a  siege,  not  a  battle, 
that  we  had  come  upon.  I  was  irritated  at  first  because 
they  destroyed  the  illusion  of  actual  warfare.  And 
yet,  when  the  next  sphere  of  cotton- white  puffed  up  over 
the  town,  I  myself  could  not  take  it  seriously  as  meaning 
human  destruction,  nor  yet  the  black  missile  singing  and 
soaring  overhead,  which  fell  short  and  went  ricochetting 
toward  the  tents.  The  men  did  not  regard  it,  either, 
as  more  than  a  part  of  their  field  sports.  Eight  or  ten 
of  them  began  to  run,  leisurely,  calculatingly,  to  inter- 
cept the  thing  in  its  spiritless  bounds.  The  man  nearest 
held  out  his  hand  to  catch  it,  but  in  an  instant  decided 
not  to,  and  jerked  back  his  hand.  The  projectile  went 
skipping  past  him,  and  rose  to  the  hand  of  a  second  man, 
and  I  thought  he  had  it,  but  he  spun  round  and  round 


202  THE  LONE  STAR 

till  he  fell,  while  the  Army  of  the  People  laughed.  Fifty 
yards  beyond,  as  the  ball  curved  up  in  its  long  sweep, 
a  tall  athletic  fellow  leaped  high,  throwing  up  his  arms. 
His  hands  closed  over  the  ball,  and  the  force  hurled  him 
backward  a  half-dozen  steps,  but  he  did  not  fall,  and 
when  he  recovered  himself,  he  threw  his  capture  to  the 
ground. 

"A  four-pounder,"  he  called,  and  others  ran  and 
picked  up  the  ball,  and  soon  they  were  ramming  it  into 
a  cannon.  You  see,  they  had  to  catch  their  ammunition 
first.  The  splendid  athlete  for  whom  cannon  balls  were 
toys  was  Jim  Bowie. 

By  now  we  were  surrounded  and  welcomed  as  so  many 
more  revellers  at  the  picnic.  But  when  the  news  raced 
as  wildfire  that  we  had  taken  Goliad,  which  meant  that 
Cos  was  isolated  in  San  Antonio  and  at  their  mercy, 
the  shouts  went  to  our  heads  like  wine.  For  old  Ben 
Milam,  whom  they  thought  in  prison  yet,  it  was  an 
ovation,  and  he  and  Buckalew  were  gathered  to  the  arms 
of  veteran  comrades,  and  nearly  had  their  joints  wrenched 
loose.  It  all  gave  me  that  lonely  fish-out-of-water 
sensation  of  not-belonging-and-wanting-to  that  I  had 
known  as  a  freshman  on  Freshman  Sunday;  only  a 
hundred  times  worse.  But  the  freshman  class  is  always 
the  largest,  at  any  rate,  and  I  had  plenty  of  com- 
pany in  the  youngsters  crowding  around  us  to  wor- 
ship the  veterans.  Many  of  these  youngsters  scarcely 
had  their  first  coat  of  tan  yet,  and  there  was  a  sprink- 
ling of  them  in  natty  uniforms — the  only  uniforms  in 
the  Army  of  the  People — and  I  wondered  who  they 
could  be. 

"Hi  thar,  ef  here  ain't  one  o'  the  'Valientes  of  Gon- 
zales!"' 

Before  I  could  turn  round,  I  knew  that  the  grizzly 
old  misanthrope,  Jack  Castleman,  was  behind  me. 


BOUQUETS  WITH  THORNS  203 

"How,  what's  that?"  demanded  an  eager  boyish 
voice.  "What's  that  you  say,  sir,  a  'Valiente'  of  Gon- 
zales?" 

It  was  not  an  angel's  voice  this  time,  but  for  all  that 
it  set  my  heartstrings  to  trembling,  and  brought  the 
tears  to  my  eyes  with  memories  of  home.  I  flung 
myself  from  my  saddle,  and  even  as  I  touched  the  ground 
I  had  my  arms  about  the  youngster  who  had  asked  the 
question.  For  he  was  my  brother,  my  baby  brother 
that  I  had  left  behind  in  Louisiana.  But  the  spirit  of 
that  daring  little  rogue  of  fourteen  now  tugged  at  its 
bounds  in  the  frame  of  a  man. 

"Yes,  that's  him,  I  jedge,"  said  Jack  Castleman,  "an* 
he's  one  o'  the  'Valientes  of  Gonzales, '  all  right." 

Thus  the  old  misanthrope — I  wish  his  was  the  pattern 
for  all  misanthropes! — had  brought  us  together.  But 
the  awed  admiration  in  my  brother's  eyes  had  no 
recognition  in  it,  and  he  was  terribly  embarrassed  to 
have  a  begrimed  buckskin  specimen  like  myself  pounce 
on  him  and  hug  him  like  a  bear. 

' '  Why,  petit  b£b£,  toi!"  I  cried,  using  on  him  the  endear- 
ment of  our  old  negro  mammy.  * 

Instantly  his  fists  doubled  up,  just  as  they  used  to 
when  they  were  soft  and  chubby,  and  I  laughed  almost 
to  crying  to  think  that  he  would  pitch  into  me,  twice 
his  weight  and  strength.  But  as  I  laughed,  his  eyes 
grew  big  and  round. 

"Harry!"  he  burst  out,  and  then  was  his  turn  to  do 
the  hugging. 

"But  you,  Phil,"  I  said,  "what  in  the  world " 

"  Oh,  I  am  one  of  the  Grays,"  he  announced,  as  solemn 
as  an  owl.  I  knew  then  that  I  was  not  altogether  a 
freshman,  for  only  freshmen  are  as  solemn  as  owls  when 
announcing  their  new  estate. 

"The  Grays,  Phil?"     I  did  not  understand. 


2o4  THE  LONE  STAR 

"Yes,  two  companies  of  us.  Just  got  here  from  New 
Orleans,  and  we've  come  to  help,  along  with  some  others 
from  Mississippi.  Lots  more  coming  too,  I  reckon, 
from  the  way  the  whole  United  States  is  holding  Texas 
meetings.  Father  subscribed  to  buy  hollow  ware — 
cannons,  you  know,"  he  explained  kindly,  "but  when 
I  wanted  to  come  too,  why  mother — "  He  had  to  pause, 
but  he  scowled  manfully,  lest  I  suspect  that  he  was  not 
a  gnarled  and  bearded  old  campaigner. 

"And  mother?"  I  prompted. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said,  batting  his  eyes.  "They  all 
sent  messages,  of  course.  Even,"  he  added  with 
inimitable  condescension,  "even  Rosalie." 

"Rosalie?" 

"Yes,  don't  you  remember?  But  you  must  try  not 
to  mind  it,  Harry,  too  much.  She  hadn't  seen  you  for 
so  long,  you  know,  and — well  I — the  fact  is,  Harry, 
I'm  afraid  that  I  went  and — and  cut  you  out,  and  I'm 
going  to  send  her  my  first  button  off  a  colonel's  uniform." 

And  this,  from  my  baby  brother! 

"But  Lordy  me,  Harry,"  he  rattled  on,  to  save  my 
feelings,  no  doubt,  "who'd*  a'  known  you!  You're  as 
brown — well,  I  took  you  for  one  of  these  regular  Indian 
killers  around  here. — Hey,  you  fellows,"  and  as  ardent 
as  a  freshman  pointing  out  each  renowned  campus  hero 
to  his  classmen,  he  drew  all  those  other  natty  youngsters 
around  us.  "Hey,  this  is  Harry!"  he  proclaimed, 
striving  to  bear  his  honours  easily. 

Then  our  old  neighbours,  or  rather,  the  baby  brothers 
of  old  neighbours,  overwhelmed  me,  and  roared  messages 
and  greetings  till  it  was  like  an  avalanche  of  precious 
pearls.  Any  single  one  of  those  pearls  would  have 
gladdened  a  week  for  me. 

"You  all  know,"  said  Phil,  "that  he's  one  of  the 
'Valientes.'  " 


BOUQUETS  WITH  THORNS  205 

"Now  once  for  all,"  I  interrupted,  "who  are  the 
'Valientes'?" 

"Why,  they're  what  the  Mexicans  call  the  Eighteen, 
you  know,  who  saved  the  cannon  at  Gonzales.  The 
San  Felipe  Telegraph  was  full  of  it,  and  our  papers 
home;  and  mother,  she  had  to  go  and  crumble  up  all 
over  the  house  and  just  cry,  she  was  so  proud.  There's 
your  cannon  over  there  now,  and  it's  the  only  one  we  got, 
except  the  four-pounder  Colonel  Bowie  captured  the 
other  day.  The  Mexicans  thought  they  had  him  sure, 
caught  him  way  off  alone  with  only  ninety  men,  and  they 
had  four  hundred,  cavalry,  batteries,  everything.  But 
shucks,  it  didn't  take  him  more'n  thirty  minutes  to 
drive  'em  back  to  town,  and  now  they  don't  dare  poke 
their  noses  out.  But  you,  Harry,  you  started  the  whole 
shindy,  you " 

I  stopped  him  short.  It  was  incense,  the  determined 
idolising  of  these  tender  youngsters,  but  I  couldn't  allow 
it.  They  would  be  finding  out  soon  enough  how  mis- 
taken they  were.  "Now  look  here,  Phil,"  I  began 
severely,  "as  for  being  one  of  the  Eighteen,  I  didn't " 

"But  whut  he  did  do,"  interrupted  Jack  Castleman, 
his  lips  set  hard  in  the  vinegar  of  contradiction,  "was 
to  slam  a  purty  captin  o'  draggins  over  in  the  river  an' 
keep  the  Mex'kins  on  their  own  side." 

"And,"  said  a  big  soft-voiced  man,  who  was  Major 
Kerr,  "  he  was  the  boy  to  gather  this  very  army  together. 
My  niggers  on  the  Lavaca  told  me  how  he  reached  there 
half  dead,  and  John  Moore  on  the  Colorado  says  he  was 
nigh  plum'  dead  when  he  got  there,  and  Mr.  Austin  tells 
how  they  had  to  lift  him  off  his  horse  when  he  rode  into 
San  Felipe.  But  he  kept  on,  rousing  the  country  clear 
to  Nacogdoches,  and  then  on  down  to  the  Gulf,  to  warn 
Old  Man  Buckalew  about  being  on  the  list " 

"What's  that  you  sav?"  roared  Old  Man  Buckalew 


2o6  THE  LONE  STAR 

himself.  "Look  here,  young  Rip — Let  me  come  to  the 
boy! — why  didn't  you  tell  me " 

"But  more'n  that,"  another  took  up  the  strain,  and 
I  thrilled,  for  it  was  the  ringing  voice  of  Ben  Milam, 
"more'n  that,  he  rode  right  into  Goliad  to  do  it,  Buck. 
Poor  Ratsy  told  me,  but  I  wanted  to  see  if  young  Rip 
would  tell,  which  he  didn't.  And  do  you  know,  Buck, 
they  cut  him  all  up,  and  he  was  only  just  out  of  bed 
when  we  found  him  spanking  Ratsy  with  Ratsy 's  own 
sword,  and  then  he  went  with  us  to  take " 

But  I  turned  away,  hurt  and  angry.  It  would  have 
been  so  glorious,  had  they  meant  it !  But  how  could  they, 
when  Nan  was  at  that  moment  in  San  Antonio  through 
my  fault,  and  awaiting  I  dared  not  think  what  peril 
because  of  me? 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WANTED:  A  BOWIE,  A  MILAM 

"fT^HESE  here  Mex'kins  don't  have  to  stay  no  longer 

A  in  Texas,"  and  every  citizen  soldier  who  had  to 
sleep  nights  on  the  wet  earth  fumed  because  we  were  not 
taking  the  town  straight  off.  Buckalew  and  Milam  had 
no  need  to  plead  Nan's  danger.  Sympathy  for  the  old 
man  was  quick.  This  having  one's  women  folk  in  cap- 
tivity was  not  an  unusual  affliction.  Indian  raids  had 
long  since  accustomed  men  to  that  anguish,  and  to  band 
together  for  rescue  was  a  matter  of  course.  .  But  the 
citizen  soldiers  were  ready  enough  without  that.  How- 
ever, the  commander-in-chief  was  not.  And  there  lay 
our  trouble.  Poor  Mr.  Austin,  broken  in  health  after 
months  in  a  dungeon,  and  nigh  heart-broken,  in  solici- 
tude for  his  people,  could  not  endure  the  thought 
of  hurling  one  thousand  of  his  best  against  odds  behind 
stone  walls. 

"Heavens,  man,"  he  said  to  Buckalew,  "we  can't 
tear  down  masonry  with  our  bare  hands!  We  must 
either  wait  for  siege  guns,  or  starve  them  out." 

Buckalew  was  in  a  dangerous  mood  when  he  joined 
us  outside  Mr.  Austin's  tent.  The  old  Redlander  tur- 
bulence was  seething. 

"We  got  to  get  someone  else  in  there,"  he  swore. 
"Just  a  man  ain't  enough;  we  need  a  devil.  Now 
where 'n  hell  is  Sam  Houston?  Why  ain't  he  here? " 

"  He's  with  the  convention  at  San  Felipe,"  said  Milam, 
"organising  a  state  government  and  such.  Austin 
wanted  him  to  take  command  here,  but  he  wouldn't. 

207 


aoS  THE  LONE  STAR 

Didn't   want    to    stir   up  any   jealousies    in  the   high 
grass." 

"Then  there's  Jim  Bowie.     Or  you,  Ben,  or  you." 

"Buck,  it  won't  do,  I  tell  you.  Then  there's  another 
thing.  Austin  ain't  here  for  long.  He  wouldn't  even 
let  the  convention  make  him  governor,  for  he's  going 
to  the  States,  and  he'll  help  us  there  more'n  any  man 
left  in  Texas." 

"Then,"  said  Buckalew,  "God  bless  him,  but  mean- 
whiles  there  don't  'pear  to  be  anything  powerful  brisk 
about  getting  into  that  town  over  there,  and  if  no  one 
else  wants  to  go  or  not,  I'm  telling  you " 

"Jes'  words,  Buck." 

Buckalew  whirled  at  the  taunt,  but  his  fist  opened  to 
a  handclasp. 

"All  teetotal  Creation,"  he  exclaimed,  "Deaf  Smith!  " 

The  old  scout,  for  a  fact!  From  out  of  the  wide  world 
somewhere  he  had  drawn  near  us,  and  there  he  stood, 
as  ever  a  lone  and  silent  man,  a  quiet  smile  on  his 
leathery  face,  two  fingers  playing  a  tattoo  on  the  back 
of  his  ear.  I  had  not  seen  him  in  three  years,  but  he 
was  the  same  Deaf  Smith  under  his  coonskin  cap  with 
the  fur  turned  in,  the  same  good  old  weather-beaten 
friend,  except  that  now  the  lynx-like  eyes  were  growing 
dim.  I  too  had  him  by  the  hand,  and  so  had  Milam, 
and  a  hand  less  of  iron  we  three  must  have  crushed  into 
a  jelly.  Gruff  old  barnacled  heart,  his  was  yet  the  heart 
that  had  beat  for  a  lonely  boy  who  had  thought  himself 
a  reproach  for  evermore  in  the  eyes  of  men.  The  tears 
welled  in  my  eyes  now  because  of  that  boy's  gratitude. 
He  looked  at  me  hard  from  under  porcupine  brows. 

"That  chin  of  your'n,  sonny?"  he  queried.  "Trouble 
you  any  more?" 

I  did  not  understand  at  first,  but  asked  no  question. 
Deaf  Smith's  few  words  were  not  to  be  questioned. 


WANTED:  A  BOWIE,  A  MILAM  209 

"Umph,"  and  he  ended  the  matter  gruff  and  short. 
"A  sledge-hammer  wouldn't  soften  it  none  now.  The 
rockiest  heft  of  jaw  ever  I  see! " 

He  loosed  his  hand,  and  ferreted  in  his  hunting  jacket, 
until  he  brought  forth  a  crumpled  ball  of  paper.  This 
he  handed  to  Buckalew.  It  was  a  letter  from  Nan. 

"You  mean  to  say,"  demanded  Milam,  while  Buckalew 
picked  at  the  letter  with  trembling  fingers,  trying  to 
smooth  it  out,  "you  mean  to  say  you've  been  in  the 
town?" 

Deaf  Smith  never  meant  to  say  anything.  He  only 
nodded.  Of  course,  how  else  could  he  get  the  letter? 

"Then  you  saw  Nan?"  cried  Nan's  father,  "You  saw 
Nan?" 

"No.  Gritton.  The  girl  is  safe."  But  why  waste 
more  words?  Deaf  Smith  pointed  to  the  letter. 

"Well? "said  Milam. 

"Well?"  I  repeated.  I  know  that  I  was  the  most 
anxious  there. 

Buckalew  wiped  off  his  shell-rimmed  spectacles,  and 
read  the  letter  a  second  time. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  reckon  we  needn't  storm 
their  old  town  any.  Starving's  good  enough,  and  a 
sight  safer  for  Nan.  She  won't  starve,  my  girl  won't. 
She  and  Mrs.  Long  are  with  the  Veramendi's — Bowie's 
father-in-law,  you  know — and  they've  got  a  smoke- 
house full  of  cawn." 

"But  about  General  Cos,"  objected  Milam,  "and  the 
danger  of  his  finding  out  who  Nan  is?" 

"That's  all  right,  too,  because  they  won't  let  her  out 
of  the  house,  though  Nan  seems  to  be  about  as  mad  as. 
a  hornet  about  it.  She  wants  to  get  out  and  see  what 
our  cannon  balls  smash  in." 

The  besiegers  might  fret  after  this,  and  they  did,  espe- 
cially the  volunteers  from  the  States,  who  had  come  fqr 


2io  THE  LONE  STAR 

action  and  wanted  action.  But  as  for  Nan's  father  and 
myself,  we  drew  on  our  patience,  hoping  now  that  an 
assault  would  not  be  necessary.  If  we  could  starve 
out  the  Mexicans  instead!  The  hope  grew  more  reason- 
able, too.  Small  detachments  of  our  people  were  con- 
stantly ranging  round  the  town  to  keep  out  beeves,  and 
after  a  time  General  Cos  tried  to  send  away  his  horses 
as  he  no  longer  had  fodder  for  them.  Again,  once  during 
the  night,  a  force  of  Mexicans  even  ventured  outside 
to  cut  grass,  but  Bowie  with  half  as  many  men  killed 
about  fifty  of  them,  captured  their  loaded  burros, 
and  chased  the  rest  back  into  the  town.  He  himself 
did  not  lose  a  man.  The  Mexicans  were  surely  in  a 
hard  way.  How  we  hoped,  day  by  day,  that  they  had 
less  to  eat  than  the  day  before!  It  was  an  unpleasant 
thing  to  hope,  and  this  business  known  as  war  sickened 
me  with  myself.  Then,  as  I  pictured  the  garrison  as 
very  hungry,  and  still  more  hungry,  I  became  enraged 
at  them  because  they  still  held  out,  and  thus  kept  us 
from  tendering  them  a  feast. 

But  while  matters  were  shaping  to  our  notion  inside 
the  town,  they  were  doing  nothing  of  the  kind  outside. 
Each  week  made  it  more  unlikely  that  we  would  ever 
take  the  place;  if,  indeed,  there  would  be  enough  of  us 
left  for  the  job.  There  was  not  the  patience  in  our 
impetuous  and  undisciplined  band  to  wait  on  starvation. 
Christmas  was  drawing  near,  too,  and  thoughts  of 
families  in  lonely  cabins  grew  insistent.  The  settlers 
came  and  went  as  they  listed,  but  mostly  they  went. 
The  fiery  youngsters  from  the  States  grumbled.  There 
were  not  tents  enough,  and  they  did  not  relish  the  cheer- 
less and  monotonous  camp  life  on  a  bleak,  norther- 
swept  prairie.  They  had  come  in  summer  clothing, 
and  now  wore  nothing  heavier.  As  shoes  gave  out, 
their  feet  touched  the  ground.  Often  we  did  not  have 


WANTED:  A  BOWIE,  A  MILAM  211 

rations,  and  many  were  sick,  and  all  were  homesick. 
A  fight,  and  nothing  but  a  fight,  would  or  could  satisfy. 
Our  little  army  of  one  thousand  dribbled  away  to  a 
mutinous  seven  hundred ;  and  meantime  Mexicans  within 
the  town  were  barricading  every  street,  making  every 
house  a  fortress,  every  ditch  a  trench,  while  rumours 
spread  that  Santa  Ana  himself  was  organising  a  horde 
of  invasion  of  ten  thousand.  The  hour  for  assault 
was  past,  to  all  reasonable  minds.  And  to  the  unreason- 
able, the  hour  to  raise  the  siege  had  come.  And  the 
chance  for  Nan's  rescue?  Each  new  development 
sharpened  the  agony  a  hundred-fold,  until  poor  old 
Buckalew  was  nearly  out  of  his  mind.  Thus  hope 
rolled  fearfully  down  hill,  and  at  last  was  shattered  on 
desperation  at  the  bottom.  There  was,  to  begin,  the 
news  that  my  brother  Phil  had  to  tell. 

"You  know  Doc  Grant,  that  Coahuila  Scotchman?" 
he  began  one  evening,  as  we  met  for  our  night's  rest  and 
supper  at  the  wickiup  we  had  made  in  a  pecan  grove 
on  the  river's  bank. 

Yes,  I  knew  Doc  Grant,  and  I  knew  that  Doc  Grant 
Was  talking  mutiny  to  volunteers  who  were  ready  for 
anything  that  promised  quick  action.  Doc  Grant 
wanted  to  lead  them  against  Matamoras  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Rio  Grande.  He  would  carry  the  war  into  the 
enemy's  country,  and  all  Mexico  would  rise  with  us  to 
support  the  Constitution  against  Santa  Ana.  Grant 
plied  a  seductive  tongue.  He  would  pay  our  men  with 
the  customs  at  Matamoras,  and  at  the  same  time  cripple 
Mexico.  I  knew,  though,  that  this  Scotchman  wanted 
back  the  haciendas  and  mines  in  Coahuila  that  Santa 
Ana  had  taken  from  him,  and  that  he  had  come  to  get 
the  Texans  to  help  him,  without,  on  the  other  hand, 
caring  a  fig  for  Texas.  And  yet  I  honestly  thought 
that  the  Matamoras  scheme  was  the  part  of  wisdom; 


aia  THE  LONE  STAR 

that  is,  after  we  had  taken  San  Antonio,  and  when  mere 
should  no  longer  be  a  Mexican  army  in  Texas. 

"Well,  what  about  Doc  Grant  now?"  I  asked. 

"He's  got  the  Grays,  that's  all.  We've  just  about 
decided  to  go  with  him." 

"What,  and  leave  the  Mexicans  here  behind  you?" 

"Not  I,  Harry,"  he  protested.  The  boy  suspected 
my  own  concern  in  this  matter.  "No,  I'll  stay  all  right, 
but  the  rest — well,  they'll  either  go  to  Matamoras  or 
back  home,  unless — unless  there's  a  chance  to  end  things 
mighty  quick." 

The  end  would  fall  quickly  enough,  once  the  Grays 
turned  their  faces  to  Matamoras.  They  would  not  go 
alone,  either,  and  there  would  not  be  enough  of  us  left 
to  starve  out  a  block  house.  The  climax  of  despair 
came  on  us  this  same  night.  Deaf  Smith,  who  had  been 
away  on  a  scout  for  several  days,  walked  into  the  light 
of  our  little  camp  fire.  I  dropped  the  skillet  in  my 
hand,  and  stood  up,  for  I  knew  him  well  enough  to 
detect  the  momentous  in  his  taciturn  bearing. 

"Where's  Buck?"  he  asked. 

•  I  nodded  toward  the  wickiup,  where  the  old  man  sat 
on  his  blanket,  gnawing  either  the  end  of  his  moustache, 
or  the  stem  of  his  remnant  of  a  "churchwarden." 

"Come,"  said  Deaf  Smith,  and  leaving  our  fire  and 
supper,  Buckalew  and  Phil  and  I  followed  where  he  led. 
He  kept  to  the  low  bank  of  the  tortuous  little  river,  nor 
did  he  stop  until  we  had  passed  our  lines  almost  under 
the  walls  of  the  Alamo.  But  at  last,  in  the  black  night 
of  a  cottonwood  grove,  where  a  step  farther  would  have 
brought  us  headlong  into  an  irrigation  ditch,  he  halted 
us,  and  gave  a  sound  so  like  an  owl  that  I  was  at  first 
deceived.  Almost  at  once,  by  leaping  across  the  ditch, 
a  fourth  man  was  among  us. 

"Now  then,"  whispered  Deaf  Smith. 


WANTED:  A  BOWIE,  A  MILAM  213 

The  stranger,  however,  was  in  no  hurry.  He  struck 
a  match — matches  were  a  new  and  rare  invention — and 
Deaf  Smith  smothered  it  in  his  hand,  but  not  before  the 
stranger  had  peered  into  our  faces,  and  I  had  recog- 
nised the  drooping  moustache,  the  drooping  sandy 
lashes,  and  the  bulby  eyes  of  my  Englishman  built  on 
the  drooping  plan. 

"Why,  it's  Mr.  Gritton!"  exclaimed  Buckalew, 
"About  Nan,  now?  Quick,  about  Nan?" 

We  heard  a  box  snap  open,  and  I  could  picture 
Gritton,  with  elbow  elaborately  curved,  shaking  the 
snuff  clear  of  his  vest. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  said  in  his  bored  way,  "but  who 
have  we  heah;  y'  know,  this — ah — child?" 

He  meant  Phil,  and  the  cold,  lazy  drawl  was  as  a  spark 
to  that  powder-can  of  a  brother  of  mine.  The  young- 
ster's breath  came  fast,  but  as  he  brushed  past  me 
in  the  dark  toward  the  insufferable  Briton,  I  caught 
his  wrist. 

"He's  with  me,"  said  Old  Man  Buckalew,  "and  that's 
enough.  Now  about  Nan?  Quick!" 

"Ah  yes,  to  be  sure.  When  are  you-ah— coming — 
for  her?" 

It  was  a  cruel  question.  During  each  waking  moment 
of  the  past  intolerable  weeks  Nan's  father  had  asked 
himself  no  other. 

"Go  on,"  ordered  Deaf  Smith. 

"Because,"  said  Gritton,  "she  walks  on  the  roof,  and 
to-day,  as  she  was  leaning  over  the  parapet,  to  see  if  one 
of  your  shells  was  not  going  to  blow  up  the  Alamo,  some 
o»e  passed  in  the  street  below,  a-ah — low  fellow  named 
— named  ah — Yandell." 

" God  Almighty,  man,  and  did  he  look  up? " 

"To  be  sure." 

"And  recognised  her?" 


2i4  THE  LONE  STAR 

"Can't  say,  y'  know,  but  she  recognised  him." 

"But  why  in  the  world,"  I  demanded,  "didn't  you 
bring  her  with  you?" 

Gritton's  legs  were  probably  spread  wide,  and  he  was 
probably  fondling  his  moustache,  and  I  could  feel  his 
insolent,  detached  gaze  on  me.  But  no  more  in  the 
dark  than  in  the  light  could  he  get  it  into  his  dense  skull 
that  I  existed.  Nan  had  said  "Another  time."  I 
would  make  it  "Now,"  once  for  all.  I  loosed  Phil's  wrist, 
but  Phil  was  quicker.  Instantly  he  had  the  Briton  by 
the  collar,  and  was  shaking  him  with  the  will  and  the 
spirit  of  '76. 

"Your  manners,"  he  hissed  between  his  teeth, 
"your  manners,  you — you  Englishman!" 

There  was  a  blow,  smacking,  compact,  on  the  cheek — 
on  Phil's  cheek.  But  there  was  another,  and  Phil  stood 
over  him. 

"Get  up.     Get  up,  and  answer  my  brother." 

"Ah,"  rose  Gritton's  voice,  "our  young  friend's 
brother,  eh?" 

"No  young  friend  about  it,"  Phil  retorted.  "Mr. 
Ripley,  sir." 

"Mr.  ah— Ripley." 

"Sir,"  Phil  persisted. 

"Sir,"  repeated  the  Englishman. 

"Now  get  up,  and  answer." 

"For  once,"  said  Deaf  Smith,  chuckling  for  the  first 
time  ever  recorded,  "they  wasn't  jes'  words." 

Gritton  rose  deliberately,  and  carefully  slapped  the 
dust  and  leaves  from  his  breeches. 

"Mr.  Ripley,  sir,"  he  began,  addressing  me  exclusively 
— he  was  by  all  odds  a  unique  specimen;  yes,  even  for 
an  Englishman — "What  would  you  say  now,  if,  in 
escorting  Miss  Buckalew  and  Mrs.  Long  here,  I  had 
met  this-ah— Yandell  ? ' ' 


WANTED:  A  BOWIE,  A  MILAM  215 

"No,  no,"  and  Nan's  father  shivered,  "you  did  best 
not  to  risk  it.  Morn'n  likely  he'd  be  watching  the 
house." 

"But  you,  sir,"  I  persisted,  "how  is  it  that  they  did 
not  stop  you?" 

"Or  me  either?"  grumbled  Deaf  Smith.  Well,  if 
Deaf  Smith  knew,  it  was  all  right.  They  had  bribed  a 
few  sentinels,  no  doubt. 

"Re-ahly  now,  Mr.  Buckalew,"  said  Gritton,  "you 
must  come  for  her,  y'  know.  As  to  an  attack,  I  can-ah 
— advise ' ' 

But  Deaf  Smith  would  let  him  advise  nothing.  That 
was  the  scout's  own  business,  when  he  reported  to  our 
general  on  what  he  had  learned  in  the  town. 

"An  attack?"  moaned  Buckalew.  "And  the  few 
of  us  left  about  to  traipse  off  to  Matamoras  with  this 
fellow  Grant!" 

"I  beg  pardon?"  said  Gritton. 

"About  to  go  to  Matamoras,  I  said.  Carry  the  war 
into  the  enemy's  country,  and  all  that  contraptioning." 

"And  it  might  be  a  good  thing,"  I  interposed,  "but 
after  the  siege  here." 

Gritton  stirred  abruptly,  and  I  imagined  that  he 
jerked  his  moustache. 

"A-h?"  he  said,  in  his  faintly  sceptical  way.  "You 
also  have  the  Matamoras  fever,  Mr.  Ripley,  sir?' 

"What  difference  can  that  make  to  you?" 

"  De-uh  me,  none,  to  be  sure." 

But  I  still  felt  that  he  was  looking  at  me  contempla- 
tively, or  trying  to. 

"Anything  further,  gentlemen?"  he  asked.  Deaf  Smith 
indicated  that  there  was  nothing.  "In  which  case " 

He  leaped  the  ditch,  and  we  had  to  admit,  for  all  his 
cool  indifference  to  the  girl's  peril,  that  it  was  also  cool 
indifference  to  his  own. 


2i6  THE  LONE  STAR 

" — au  revoir"  he  completed  his  farewell,  as  he  van- 
ished through  the  trees.  "We  shall  meet  in  the  town." 

"God!"  moaned  Buckalew  despairingly. 

"Don't,  Buck,  don't,"  said  Deaf  Smith. 

Now  Deaf  Smith  was  not  given  to  empty  consolation. 
He  took  Nan's  father  by  the  elbow,  and  turned  toward 
camp,  and  then  direct  to  the  tent  of  our  general.  Mr. 
Austin  had  left  on  his  mission  to  the  States,  and 
the  army  had  chosen  in  his  stead  a  worthy  planter 
named  Edward  Burleson.  Mr.  Burleson,  was  without 
military  experience,  and  like  Mr.  Austin,  he  could  not 
nerve  himself  to  the  responsibility  of  ordering  the 
supreme  attack.  But  now  Deaf  Smith  convinced  him 
that  the  strength  of  the  place  was  not  as  great  as  he  had 
feared,  and  that,  moreover,  the  half-starved  garrison 
was  nearer  to  mutiny  than  ourselves.  Two  American 
residents  of  the  town  who  had  escaped  to  our  lines  added 
their  testimony,  and  in  the  end  we  left  the  tent  with 
orders  to  report  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  At 
last,  at  last,  we  were  to  storm  the  beleaguered  city. 

The  camp  slept  exultantly  the  rest  of  that  night,  or 
slept  not  at  all.  The  youngsters  were  happy,  the 
frontiersmen  grimly  determined.  Buckalew  was  torn 
by  dread  of  the  scene  his  child  must  face  on  the  morrow. 
And  I  could  think  of  nothing  except  that  I  was  going 
to  see  Nan  again.  That  was  enough  to  keep  me  from 
sleeping,  all  right;  that,  and  trying  to  hope  that  she 
might  care  to  see  me  too.  Yet  there  was  Gritton.  He 
had  had  a  clear  field  during  the  past  weeks,  and  .  .  . 
But  would  four  o'clock  never,  never  come! 

It  was  dark  as  night  at  that  hour  of  that  chilling 
December  morning,  when  the  Army  of  the  People, 
seven  hundred  shivering  men  whose  naked  fingers 
stiffened  on  their  flintlocks,  gathered  for  the  work  of 
that  day.  Captains  in  shirts  of  linsey-woolsey  hastily 


WANTED:  A  BOWIE,  A  MILAM  217 

mustered  their  companies,  colonels  in  deerskin  moc- 
casins formed  their  skeleton  regiments,  and  we  awaited 
only  the  general.  But  there  was  a  conference  of  some 
sort  going  on  in  the  general's  tent.  Men  stamped  their 
feet  and  swung  their  arms  for  warmth  and  lack  of 
patience.  The  delay  did  not  bode  well.  We  peered  fret- 
fully towards  the  rolling  shadowy  horizon  line  in  the 
east,  knowing  that  the  sun  would  be  prompt,  though 
our  general  were  not.  Then  the  flap  of  the  tent  was 
thrown  open,  and  in  the  yellow  area  of  candle-light 
officers  appeared. 

"Now!"  we  cried.     "Now!" 

,  One  of  that  council  of  war  was  Deaf  Smith.  I  heard 
his  teeth  click  unpleasantly  as  he  went  up  to  Buckalew. 

"Countermanded!"  he  said  wearily. 

"What?" 

"You  don't  mean — no,  hell  no!" 

Thus  the  word  spread,  gathering  venom,  rolling  up 
virulence  and  violence.  The  citizen  soldiery  huddled 
there  in  the  dark  night,  breathless  to  risk  their  lives 
like  veterans,  lashed  themselves  with  that  word.  They 
began  to  move  restlessly ,  murmuring  louder  their  curses. 
In  only  a  little  they  were  almost  a  lawless  mob,  gathered 
for  a  lynching.  Countermanded,  eh?  One  of  our  spies 
had  not  come  back,  eh?  Might  be  captured,  eh?  And 
General  Burleson  feared  the  Mexicans  knew  our  plans, 
that  was  it,  eh?  And  Mexicans  were  expecting  us? 
Balls  of  fire,  why  disappoint  them,  then?  Weren't  we 
men,  we  Texians,  to  keep  our  dates  like  men?  Yes,  by 
God,  we  would,  or  ...  There  was  peril  for  our 
general  in  that  alternative. 

"Where's  Jim  Bowie?"  cried  one.     "He'll  lead  us." 

"Jim  Bowie!"  cried  everybody. 

But  Bowie  was  not  there.     He  was  out  foraging. 

"Then  Ben  Milam!  Old  Ben  Milam!" 


2i8  THE  LONE  STAR 

But  Milam  was  away  too.  He  commanded  the  scouts, 
and  impelled  by  magnificent  fury,  he  could  never  keep 
quietly  in  camp  so  long  as  the  Mexicans  were  in  Texas. 

"Then  boys,"  shouted  Dr.  Grant,  circulating  actively, 
seductively,  "there's  nothing  for  it  but  Matamoras. 
Who's  for  Matamoras?" 

"All  of  us,  Doc!  All  of  us!"  yelled  back  the  Army 
of  the  People. 

"God,  God,  God!"  sobbed  Old  Man  Buckalew. 

Men  gathered  round  him  in  the  break  of  day,  and 
these  men  saw  red.  Buckalew  caught  the  dangerous 
note  in  their  sympathy,  and  he  roused  himself  to  prevent. 

"No,  not  on  Burleson,"  he  cried. 

"  But  he's  ordered  a  general  parade.  General  parades, 
your  grandmother!  If  he  can't  general  up  anything 
better " 

"And  he's  ordered  the  march  to  Goliad  this  evening 


"To  go  into  winter  quarters." 

"No,  no,  we'll  go  to  Matamoras." 

Their  angry  cries  rose  to  hoots,  and  many  surged 
about  the  tent  of  the  generalissimo  of  general  parades, 
daring  him  to  show  himself. 

"Not  there,  not  there!"  cried  Buckalew.  "But  to 
the  town!  Who  will  lead  us  to  the  town?"  And  he 
called  aloud  on  Ben  Milam,  on  his  friend  Ben  Milam, 
like  one  insane,  but  his  frenzy  of  appeal,  I  think,  was 
more  to  Heaven  above.  And  then,  even  as  he  called,  we 
saw  a  cloud  of  dust  made  by  a  troop,  and  the  cloud  grew; 
and  the  scouts,  and  Milam  leading,  galloped  among  us. 

The  shout  of  "Ben  Milam!"  rose  on  all  sides.  Buck- 
alew caught  his  friend's  bridle,  turned  his  horse's  head 
toward  the  town,  would  not  let  him  dismount.  He 
murmured  incoherently  of  the  assault  postponed,  of 
Nan's  danger. 


WANTED:  A  BOWIE,  A  MILAM  219 

Milam  leaned  over  and  touched  the  old  man  on  the 
shoulder.  The  clamouring  of  the  Army  was  in  his 
ears.  He  straightened  in  his  saddle,  and  his  eyes  under 
the  heavy  brows  hardened  to  cold  steel  as  he  looked 
over  the  jostling  mob.  He  raised  his  hand,  and  then 
we  heard  his  voice,  loud,  ringing,  inspiriting. 

"Who  will  go  to  San  Antone  with  old  Ben  Milam?" 

In  that  ringing  tone,  what  question  more  absurd? 

Seven  hundred  men  yelled  their  reply.     When  Texans 

yell,  you  have  there  the  note  of  huge  endeavour.     Yes, 

the  question  was  absurd. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THREE    HUNDRED    MEN 

BUT  though  the  verve  of  a  youngster  fired  his  veins, 
Milam  was  yet  too  old  a  campaigner  to  go  charg- 
ing a  fortified  town  without  any  plans  whatever.  Again 
in  the  dead  of  night,  again  near  four  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  and  under  cover  of  a  dry  norther's  rowdy 
blasts,  three  hundred  of  us — Milam  would  take  but  three 
hundred — gathered  at  the  old  mill  for  that  silent,  jubilant, 
and  death-like  march  on  the  sleeping  Old  World  town 
of  San  Antonio. 

Half-way  there  through  the  high  wet  mesquite  grass, 
our  force  split  into  two  divisions  and  entered  the. town 
by  two  parallel  streets.  These  streets  led  to  the  Plaza 
with  its  church  and  garrisoned  presidio;  in  a  word,  to 
the  citadel  of  the  place.  The  first  of  the  two  streets 
was  Soledad  Street,  and  impulsive  Colonel  Frank  Johnson, 
our  adjutant-general,  commanded  those  who  entered 
here.  The  rest  of  us,  including  the  Grays,  Buckalew 
and  myself,  followed  Ben  Milam  down  to  the  street 
just  beyond.  Tip-toeing  like  thieves  along  a  dark  corri- 
dor, we  groped  our  way  into  the  town.  We  hugged 
the  walls  where  there  were  walls,  and  took  care  not  to 
tumble  into  a  ditch  that  threaded  the  street.  The  street 
was  named  Acequia  Street  because  of  this  ditch,  though 
ditches  were  nearly  as  plentiful  as  streets  in  San  Antonio. 

"And  the  Veramendi  house?"  Buckalew  asked  in  a 
whisper  of  our  guide.  The  guide  was  Sam  Maverick, 
one  of  the  residents  who  had  escaped  to  our  lines. 

"On  farther,"  said  Maverick,  "then  to  the  left." 


THREE  HUNDRED  MEN  221 

"Shut  up!"  ordered  Milam. 

"But  Nan  is  at  Veramendi's,  Ben — Lordy,  what's 
that?" 

A  cannon  roared  on  the  opposite  edge  of  the  town, 
toward  the  Alamo.  For  the  moment  we  did  not 
remember  that  those  left  behind  were  to  feign  an  assault 
on  the  Alamo.  More  cannon  boomed,  and  there  were 
yells.  The  sham  attack  sounded  very  earnest  and 
business-like.  The  town  before  us  was  awakening,  at 
first  stricken,  then  mumbling,  then  rising  to  panic. 
Tousled  heads  and  frightened  eyes  appeared  behind  the 
bars  of  windows.  Bolts  and  chains  rattled,  a  door 
opened,  and  a  swarthy  citizen  in  undress  was  seen 
skurrying.  His  wife  screamed  behind  him.  She  crossed 
herself  frantically  as  she  ran,  and  fell  on  her  knees 
to  pray.  The  citizen  left  her  there.  Ahead  of  us,  in  the 
centre  of  town,  the  confusion  grew.  Bells  in  the  old 
church  dome  began  jangling.  Drums  and  bugles 
sounded  in  the  barracks  at  the  Plaza.  We  heard 
the  flurry  of  soldiers  as  officers  hurried  them  to  the 
Alamo.  But  all  the  while  we  blotted  ourselves  against 
the  fronts  of  houses,  treading  softly,  swiftly,  undisturbed, 
darting  like  a  spawn  of  sinister  fish  through  the  torpid 
stream  of  gray  mist  between  the  walls. 

"Get  on!"  panted  Milam.  "On,  as  far  as  we  can 
before — - — " 

We  broke  into  a  run,  and  ran  on  the  balls  of  our  feet. 
The  padded  pattering  beat  in  cadence  with  our  stifled 
breathing.  Yet  thus  far  our  part  of  the  world  was  as  an 
invaded  tomb,  while  off  there  in  the  distance  all  was  a 
yelping  snarl,  as  interpreted  by  man's  invention  of 
gunpowder. 

Buckalew  sprang  ahead,  abreast  with  our  guide. 
"When  to  the  left?"  he  gasped. 

"Here,  this  corner." 


222  THE  LONE  STAR 

Round  the  corner  we  swung,  the  Grays  pushing  from 
behind,  coming  down  on  the  heels  of  the  men  in  front. 
In  this  cross  street,  a  block  ahead,  Johnson's  men  were 
just  appearing.  A  fleeing  sentinel  turned  on  them 
and  fired  his  escopeta.  I  saw  Deaf  Smith,  who  was 
Johnson's  guide,  fire  his  pistol  at  the  same  time,  then 
lurch  sideways  into  Johnson's  arms.  But  he  had  killed 
the  sentinel.  Our  part  of  the  world  was  no  longer  a 
silent  tomb,  and  yet  it  was  a  tomb  more  truly. 

"Now  for  cover!"  shouted  Milam.     "Quick,  where?" 

"Just  to  the  corner,"  yelled  Maverick.  "Here  we 
are,  the  Garza  house." 

Crowbars  laid  open  the  doors,  and  in  we  rushed, 
driving  the  terrified  Garzas  back  to  their  rooms. 

"But  this  ain't  Veramendi's,"  and  Buckalew  turned, 
and  tried  to  get  out  again.  But  the  current  of  in- 
pouring  men  was  a  mill-race.  Cannon  on  the  church 
roof  a  block  away  were  sweeping  the  street,  and  the 
raging  Buckalew  was  borne  inside  by  the  stream. 

"To  the  roof!"  bellowed  Milam. 

The  Garza  roof  was  flat,  around  which  the  walls  rose 
two  feet  higher.  This  parapet  was  a  mighty  good  thing 
for  us  as  we  scrambled  up  into  a  horizontal  sleet  of 
grape  and  musket  balls.  The  Mexicans  were  firing 
from  the  church  and  presidio  ramparts  across  an  almost 
vacant  square  that  lay  between,  and  also  from  trenches 
and  barricades  in  the  streets  below.  Even  the  batteries 
on  the  Alamo,  a  half-mile  away,  contributed  ugly  black 
eight-pounders  to  our  little  inferno.  We  were  like 
men  wrecked  on  a  rock  in  a  molten  sea  of  lead.  Yet 
our  strategists  had  planned  for  the  desperate  best. 
As  the  old  Indian  fighters  among  us  came  tumbling 
up,  and  ducked  below  the  level  of  the  parapet,  they 
needed  only  a  glance  before  their  flint-locks  were 
clearing  the  nearest  batteries. 


THREE  HUNDRED  MEN  223 

"Veramendi's?" 

It  was  Buckalew's  first  word  as  he  gained  the  roof, 
leaped  on  the  parapet,  and  gazed  through  the  powder 
smoke  blown  by  the  norther  over  the  low  stone  houses 
and  garden  patches  of  the  town.  In  the  sputtering 
furnace  around  him,  somewhere,  was  Nan. 

"Vera " 

I  jerked  him  down.  I  was  enraged  that  anyone 
should  expose  himself,  and  I  almost  cuffed  him  in  my 
anger. 

"Here,  I'll  show  you  Veramendi's,"  said  Maverick. 
Our  own  house  of  refuge,  it  should  be  understood,  faced 
a  cross  street,  and  was  flanked  by  Soledad  Street,  down 
which  Johnson's  men  had  come. 

"That's  Veramendi's,"  said  Maverick,  "that  large 
house  across  Soledad  Street  with  the  big  doors  and  the 
garden  in  the  back.  Johnson  went  in  there.  Don't 
you  see  his  fellows  on  the  roof?" 

We  looked  where  he  pointed,  and  recognised  the 
Mississippi  volunteers  blazing  lustily  away  at  some  rifle 
pits  in  the  Plaza. 

"Then  that's — "I  began. 

"Yes,  that's  Veramendi's." 

Milam's  bony  fingers  closed  over  my  wrist. 

"Now  where  are  you  going?"  he  demanded. 

I  reddened  like  a  schoolboy  caught  sending  notes 
to  a  girl.  "Tears  to  me  it's  enough  holding  the  old 
man,"  said  Milam.  "Now  you  get  to  work." 

Someone  laughed  in  high  glee  at  my  elbow. 

"Pretty  time  for  sweethearting,"  chortled  that  baby 
brother  of  mine.  "Pretty  time " 

The  lad  was  excited,  happy,  hysterical.  I  envied  him 
the  rapture  that  glistened  in  his  eyes  and  trembled 
on  his  lip. 

"Idiot!"  I  yelled,  grabbing  his  leg.     "Get  down!" 


224  THE  LONE  STAR 

"But  I  hit  one!"  he  protested,  as  though  that  were 
reason  for  making  a  target  of  himself.  "Hit  one,  I 
tell  you!  Oh  Harry,  if  this  isn't " 

"Here,  you  boys,"  shouted  Milam  over  the  din, 
"stop  your  whispering,. and  get  to  work." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Phil.  He  could  not  get  it  into  his 
•  head  that  this  was  work.  He  levelled  his  rifle  over  the 
parapet,  and  aimed  at  first  one  thing  and  another,  even 
pausing  with  a  bead  on  the  distant  Alamo.  The  greedy 
youngster  wanted  to  shoot  everything  at  once.  But 
when  he  did  pull  the  trigger,  there  was  no  report.  He 
looked  at  me  abashed.  He  had  forgotten  to  reload. 

As  for  myself,  I  wondered  greatly  to  discover  that 
even  the  intensest  excitement  could  not  keep  a  man's 
thoughts  long  from  himself.  The  inferno  did  not  once 
abate  all  that  day,  except  for  partial  lapses  when  new 
gunners  had  to  be  driven  to  the  Mexican  batteries, 
yet  slowly  I  got  to  thinking,  questioning,  as  though  it 
were  the  eve  of  battle,  and  not  the  battle  itself,  and 
this  odd  vagary  of  self-consciousness  astonished  me. 
Then  dread  began  to  creep  into  the  soft  core  of  my 
bones,  and  I  feared  and  hated  the  dread,  as  one  fears 
and  hates  an  old  malady  that  he  hoped  he  had  done 
with  forever.  There  was  no  mistaking  this  malady. 
It  was  Anticipation — Cowardice,  if  you  like.  The 
next  minute,  the  next  second,  and  my  brains  might  be 
spattered  over  the  roof.  I  could  not  deny  the  imminent 
probability.  One  simply  had  to  admit  the  imminent 
probability,  that  was  all.  And  then  what?  Face  it, 
defy  it?  Or — run  and  hide?  Run  and  hide,  and  by 
that  act  lay  bare  the  foul  secret  canker  of  Fear  in  your 
soul?  Very  strangely,  the  thought  of  running  did  not 
once  occur  to  me.  It  never  did.  And  yet — the  hideous- 
ness  of  self-scrutiny  at  such  a  time!  My  spine  was  like 
a  tallow  dip  in  a  burning  house,  and  then  I  shivered, 


THREE  HUNDRED  MEN  225 

as  though  a  cake  of  ice  were  laid  against  the  spine. 
But  crouching  behind  the  thick  parapet  to  reload,  I 
felt  curiously  snug  and  comfortable,  as  one  does  at  night 
when  wind  and  rain  beat  on  the  shutters.  Yet  it  was 
not  fair  for  any  man  of  our  little  band  to  waste  an  instant. 
One  had  to  aim  coolly,  too,  and  never  waste  a  single  shot. 
But  it  was  very  hard  to  swallow  down  the  lump  in  one's 
throat  by  swallowing  after  it  that  lump  of  philosophy 
about  a  man's  having  to  die  in  any  case. 

"The  wretch  that  trembles  in  the  field  of  fame, 
Meets  death,  and  worse  than  death,  eternal  shame." 

How  reasonable  a  morsel  in  exalted  moments  of  safe 
reflection!  But  how  unpalatable  in  the  test!  I  looked 
about  me  to  note  how  the  others  behaved,  and  then  I 
saw  and  marvelled  that  they  were  not  falling  like  flies 
on  that  smoke-covered  roof.  No,  we  had  not  lost  a 
man.  The  sharpshooters  in  the  cupola  of  the  church 
had  contrived  to  reward  Dr.  Grant,  with  a  nasty  hole 
through  the  shoulder.  Phil's  captain  was  also  wounded; 
of  which,  however,  the  Grays  were  both  proud  and 
envious  But  as  I  say,  not  a  man  was  killed,  despite 
the  horizontal  pelting  of  lead,  and  I  was  vaguely  dis- 
turbed to  find  the  legendary  and  conventional  upset 
in  this  manner. 

Was  I  then  afraid  for  nothing?  I  rammed  home  a 
tight  ball,  sprang  on  the  parapet,  and  aimed,  aimed— 
as  coolly  as  the  cucumber-blooded  Bowie  himself.  Yes, 
I  had  been  afraid  for  nothing.  The  bullets  whistled, 
but  it  was  just  noise,  and  not  death,  that  is,  not  invari- 
ably. The  all  important  thing,  however,  was  this:  I 
had  convinced  myself  that  I  could  stand  under  fire,  and 
— But  just  then  smoke  puffed  up  from  the  top  of  the 
church,  and  a  ball  crashed  through  the  Veramendi  roof, 
and  Johnson's  men  there  were  forced  below.  At  that 


226  THE  LONE  STAR 

Fear  took  me  worse  than  ever,  a  worse  fear,  and  yet 
at  least  a  generous  one.  For  Nan  was  under  that  roof, 
and  that  cursed  church  battery  must  be  stopped.  The 
new  kind  of  trembling  kept  me  off  the  parapet  from 
that  time  on.  I  took  no  more  risks,  but  reloaded  fever- 
ishly and  quickly,  though  the  stiff  wind  blew  the  powder 
back  into  my  eyes.  I  aimed  from  cover  too,  that  I 
might  be  saved  to  make  yet  one  more  shot  count  for  a 
gunner  on  that  church  roof. 

Milam  had  the  greatest  difficulty  all  day  long  in  restrain- 
ing Old  Man  Buckalew,  who  was  near  insane  for  some 
word  of  Nan.  But  it  was  impossible  to  go  to  the  Ver- 
amendi  house,  since  a  howitzer  in  the  rifle  pits  constantly 
raked  the  street ;  and  as  for  yelling  a  question  and  mak- 
ing ourselves  heard,  the  boisterous  wind  and  the  inces- 
sant battle  under  the  leaden  sky  drowned  our  voices 
each  time  we  tried.  Night  came,  and  yet  the  firing 
never  stopped. 

"Don't  matter,"  said  Buckalew,  "I'm  going  any- 
how," and  the  look  on  his  face  showed  that  he  would. 

"All  right,  then,"  said  Milam.     "Come  on." 

"But  Ben,  you  needn't " 

"Yes,  I  do  need,"  said  Milam,  buttoning  his  coat  to 
the  chin  as  though  he  were  to  make  a  dash  through  a 
blizzard.  "I've  got  to  figger  out  what  next  with 
Johnson  over  there." 

I  followed  them  to  the  door.  Two  of  the  Grays 
lifted  off  the  bar.  Then  one  held  the  door,  ready  to  pull 
it  open.  Milam  fastened  the  last  button,  and  turning 
to  wave  his  hand  to  us,  he  saw  me. 

"Hey,  young  Rip,"  he  exclaimed,  "sure  you're  not 
going  too?" 

His  mouth  twisted  boyishly,  teasingly,  at  the  corners, 
and  there  was  the  light  that  thrilled  in  his  eyes.  I  caught 
my  breath. 


THREE  HUNDRED  MEN  227 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

Until  then  I  really  did  not  know  that  I  meant  to  go. 
The  mechanical  utterance  of  the  syllable,  all  the  strength 
of  will  lay  in  just  that.  But  the  word  was  spoken,  and 
the  mere  body  was  then  committed  to  what  might  befall, 
To  unsay  the  little  word  would  take  yet  greater  strength. 

"Oh-oh,"  said  Milam,  laughing  outright,  "the  three 
of  us  then.  Open  the  door,  boys.  Now  buckle  to  it 
Now!" 

He  passed  through,  and  vanished.  Buckalew  crowded 
him.  My  jaws  locked,  and  I  crowded  Buckalew.  The 
door  slammed  behind  me,  and  I  was  outside. 

The  black  stormy  night  was  streaked  everywhere  with 
flashes.  The  bombarding  had  quickened  as  the  door 
opened,  and  was  sharp  and  vicious,  like  lightning  and 
thunderclaps  all  in  chaos.  One  shock  that  blinded 
and  deafened  yet  gave  me  an  instant's  glimpse  of  Milam 
and  Buckalew  darting  ahead.  The  next  moment  we 
three  thumped  together  against  the  Veramendi  doors. 
They  were  heavy,  of  cedar,  and  they  opened  sluggishly 
before  our  pounding,  but  they  opened  on  the  bright, 
cheery  glare  of  pine  torches  within.  It  was  like  a  cosy 
warm  house  when  one  comes  panting  in  out  of  the  cold. 
I  tried  to  find  Nan's  face  among  the  many  tanned  and 
rugged  ones  as  I  rushed  inside.  But  I  did  not  see  her, 
and  this  thought,  that  she  was  not  there,  that  she  was 
not  there,  was  beating  against  my  brain  when  Buckalew 
gave  a  sharp  cry  almost  with  the  closing  of  the  doors 
after  us,  and  turning,  I  saw  Milam's  head  double  over 
limp  on  his  breast,  and  his  body  sink  like  a  rag  to  the 
floor. 

Men's  faces  were  never  more  stricken  than  those  rough- 
weathered  ones  in  the  Veramendi  house.  Their  gaunt 
old  friend  crumpled  there  in  his  rags  was  dead.  That 
was  the  first  thing.  But  next,  they  could  not  believe 


228  THE  LONE  STAR 

it.  No  one  said  much.  What  was  there  they  could 
say?  Many  cursed  low  in  a  deadly  way,  but  aimlessly, 
others  moaned: 

"  How — how  will  we  do  without  him?  " 

Old  Man  Buckalew,  kneeling  beside  our  dead  chief, 
looked  up  angrily. 

"How?"  he  cried.  "How?  Wy,  this  town  is  as  good 
as  taken,  right  now!  As  good  as  taken,  ain't  it,  Ben? 
And  Texas  too,  Ben!  And  Texas,  too!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CREDITORS 

AS  THEY  took  Buckalew's  meaning,  that  meaning 
-f~V  was  reflected  in  the  hard  countenance  of  each 
man  there,  and  the  look  of  them  was  somewhat  that 
of  very  stern  creditors.  They  had  paid  in  advance. 
Their  poor  gallant  leader  stretched  dead  at  their  feet 
was  the  token.  And  now  they  would  exact  payment. 
The  debtors  outnumbered  us  five  to  one,  and  they  had 
cannon  and  might  stay  behind  stone  walls.  As  Indians 
besmear  their  cheeks  to  terrify,  our  debtors  had  that 
day  unfurled  over  the  church  the  blood-red  flag,  the 
emblem  of  "No  quarter."  The  Mexicans  had  decided 
that  not  one  of  us  should  live.  Yet  I  could  imagine 
no  greater  terror  than  to  face  this  little  throng  of  be- 
leaguered Texans  with  that  expression  hardening  in 
their  eyes.  What  signified  a  gaudy  crimson  rag?  This 
other  thing  was  doom  itself.  I  shuddered  for  the 
Mexicans  as  these  men  buried  old  Ben  Milam  where 
he  fell. 

We  had  passed  through  fire  thus  disastrously,  Nan's 
father  and  I,  but  we  had  not  found  Nan.  Deaf  Smith, 
his  shoulder  bandaged  and  weak  from  the  wound,  came 
to  us  and  handed  Buckalew  a  letter  in  Nan's  hand- 
writing. She  had  left  it  with  one  of  Gritton's  servants 
whom  Johnson's  men  had  found  still  in  the  house.  Mr. 
Gritton,  she  wrote,  had  told  her  of  his  interview  with 
her  father,  and  she  had  guessed  that  her  father  would 
fight  his  way  to  the  Veramendi  house  as  soon  as  possible 

229 


230  THE  LONE  STAR 

after  the  attack  began.  She  herself  wished  to  stay  at 
Veramendi's,  to  see  the  fighting,  if  nothing  more,  but 
Mr.  Gritton  had  made  it  clear  to  Mrs.  Long  that  they 
must  hide  elsewhere,  and  only  the  night  before  they 
had  done  so. 

"Where,"  demanded  Buckalew,  thrusting  the  letter 
under  Deaf  Smith's  nose,  "is  this  priest's  house  she  says 
she's  gone  to?" 

"Right  across  the  street  from  the  Plaza  barracks." 

"Right  under  their  cannon  too,"  cried  Buckalew. 
"Right  in  their  power!  But  how  far,  how  far  is  it  from 
here?" 

"  'Bout  a  thousand  yards." 

A  thousand  yards  of  stone  wall  to  fight  through,  and 
each  yard  meant  also  that  much  nearer  to  the  cannon 
of  the  barracks.  The  little  fraction  of  space  broadened 
as  to  infinity. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Deaf  Smith,  "we'll  make  'em  a 
few  yards  less  in  the  morning." 

When  morning  dawned,  though,  we  found  the  Mex- 
icans as  thick  and  venomous  as  nests  of  snakes  on  all 
the  roofs  between  us  and  the  Plaza.  We  could  not 
clear  them  off,  either,  as  they  had  drilled  loopholes 
through  the  parapets.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  charge  on  the  first  house,  take  that,  take  breath  for 
the  next  one,  and  so  work  our  way  to  the  citadel,  to  the 
barracks  in  the  Plaza. 

The  first  house  was  a  lone  dwelling  in  the  open  square 
between  the  Garza  house  and  the  Plaza.  A  handful 
of  volunteers,  led  by  a  chubby  man  named  Henry 
Karnes  with  a  lady-like  voice  and  a  crowbar,  rushed 
through  the  murderous  fire  of  all  out-doors,  crossed  the 
open  space  intervening,  broke  down  the  door  of  the 
lone  dwelling,  and  there  fought  hand  to  hand  to  get 
inside.  Excruciatingly  slow  they  seemed  about  it,  like 


CREDITORS  231 

a  rabbit  disappearing  into  a  serpent's  jaws,  but  they 
were  equally  sure,  too.  Then,  almost  at  once,  they 
appeared  on  the  roof,  the  defenders  giving  way  before 
them,  backing  till  they  tumbled  over  the  parapets. 

The  open  square  around  the  house  was  honeycombed 
with  rifle  pits,  and  between  these  and  our  boys  on  the 
roof  there  now  followed  a  sharpshooting  duel,  which 
ended  when  the  pits  were  silenced  and  we  ourselves 
were  entrenched  in  them. 

After  this,  you  will  say,  we  took  the  Plaza  itself,  that 
obviously  coming  next.  But  let  me  explain.  The 
Plaza  was  really  two  plazas,  each  a  square,  with  a  square 
in  between  occupied  by  the  old  stone  church,  and  all 
covering  a  space  three  blocks  long  by  one  wide.  Now 
the  section  of  plaza  opposed  to  the  open  square  we  had 
just  won  was  an  open  square  likewise,  then  known  as  the 
Plaza  de  las  Yslas.  To  proceed  in  this  direction,  then, 
we  would  only  expose  ourselves  in  the  open  to  the  guns 
of  the  church.  Consequently  we  had  to  keep  behind 
walls.  In  other  words,  we  must  first  storm  and  occupy 
those  houses  along  the  street  that  opposed  the  church, 
or  middle  square,  and  then  do  the  same  thing  with  those 
that  opposed  the  third  square.  And  this  third  square, 
by  the  way,  was  the  Plaza  de  Armas,  the  site  of  the 
presidio,  the  ramparts,  the  barracks;  or,  as  I  have  said, 
the  citadel. 

Accordingly,  after  the  affair  of  the  rifle  pits,  we 
changed  our  course  from  direct  to  sideways.  We  took 
the  house  next  to  the  Garza  house,  which  was  easy,  and 
so  on  down  to  Acequia  Street,  where  we  charged  across 
the  ditch  and  on  one  block  farther,  till  we  reached  the 
street  beyond,  Flores  Street,  which  ran  parallel  to 
Acequia,  and  likewise  opened  on  the  Plaza.  It  was  here 
that  we  changed  our  course  again,  working  behind  walls, 
from  one  wall  to  the  next,  and  thus  on  direct  toward 


23 2  THE  LONE  STAR 

the  church.  The  houses  in  this  block  were  built  together 
and  were  called  the  Zambrano  Row,  and  Zambrano  Row 
that  day  gave  its  name  to  a  desperate  and  unique  battle. 
When  we  had  taken  the  first  of  these  houses  and  cleared 
it  of  the  swarthy,  cornered,  wildcat  Mexicans,  we  dug 
our  way  with  crowbars  through  two  feet  of  stone  into 
the  next  house,  and  there  fought  a  second  hand-to-hand 
battle;  and  then  a  third  battle,  and  a  fourth,  and  a  fifth; 
with  wolfish  eyes  ever  giving  way  before  us  in  the  half 
light,  and  escopetas  spitting  fair  in  our  faces,  and  knives 
and  bayonets  slashing  and  stabbing,  and  screeches 
deafening  us,  and  smoke  blinding  and  choking.  That 
was  one  day's  work,  but  that  night  we  ate  our  supper 
in  the  last  house  down  Flores  Street,  where  the  Na- 
varros  lived.  The  Navarro  house  was  on  the  corner  and 
faced  the  middle  square  of  the  Plaza.  Diagonally 
across  the  street  lay  the  Plaza  de  Armas,  and  there  rose 
the  corner  of  the  barracks.  Standing  on  the  roof  of 
Navarro's,  we  could  throw  a  stone  over  the  walls  of  the 
barracks  into  the  barracks  compound ;  and  one  block  more 
sideways,  at  the  corresponding  corner,  opposite  the 
farther  corner  of  the  barracks,  there  was  the  priest's 
house  where  Nan  and  Mrs.  Long  had  taken  refuge.  Once 
in  there,  we  should  have  the  citadel  itself  to  grapple 
with.  That  priest's  house  was  the  acme  of  the  assault. 

During  the  past  four  days  we  had  fought,  and  during 
the  nights  we  had  made  sandbag  breastworks  and  dug 
trenches  with  our  meagre  tools  to  hold  our  communi- 
cations, and  each  morning  we  had  found  new  batteries 
and  new  rifle  pits  that  must  be  soothed  to  quiet.  This 
night,  though,  we  hoped  for  a  good  nap  behind  the 
Navarro  walls  not  yet  crumbled  by  cannon,  but  even 
now  there  was  work  overtime  ahead  of  us. 

I  was  on  the  roof  in  a  drizzling  chilly  rain,  stuffing 
down  corn  pone  to  the  last  crumb.  I  looked  over  the 


CREDITORS  233 

houses  facing  the  barracks,  and  tried  to  locate  the 
farthest  one,  which  sheltered  Nan.  Here  another  of 
our  fellows  joined  me,  and  turning  to  see  who  he  was,  I 
made  out  the  cape  coat  and  shapeless  cap  of  Old  Man 
Buckalew.  He  was  silent  and  restrained,  as  he  had 
been  toward  me  ever  since  Nan's  chance  of  harm  from 
Santa  Ana  through  my  blundering.  I  believe  the 
warm-hearted  old  warrior  feared  he  might  be  gruff  in 
earnest,  as  he  certainly  had  reason  to  be.  Neither  of 
us  spoke,  but  by  a  common  impulse  we  stood  our  vigil 
in  the  rain,  guarding  from  afar  that  priest's  house  that 
sheltered  Nan.  To-morrow  we  would  make  a  few  more 
yards,  and  then.  .  .  .  There  were  muffled  sounds  in 
the  compound  behind  the  barracks  walls.  We  stood  on 
the  parapet  and  listened.  Sputtering  volleys  from  the 
Mexican  trenches  interrupted.  But  when  these  died 
out,  we  distinctly  heard  the  noise  of  wheels,  as  of  a 
carriage  being  drawn  out  of  a  shed,  and  then  of  horses 
led  from  a  corral.  The  Mexicans  over  in  the  barracks 
yard  were  hitching  up  for  some  midnight  deviltry.  Soon 
a  band  of  armed  men  filed  stealthily  out  into  the  street. 

"They're  bound  for  the  priest's  house,"  I  whispered. 

"It — it's  something  to  do  with  Nan." 

"Oh  hardly,  "  I  said.  "They're  only  getting  ready 
for  us  for  to-morrow." 

"But  that's  as  bad.  They'll  find  her,  won't  they? 
If  they — if  they  don't  know  it  already.  And  that  car- 
riage. Listen,  there  she  goes." 

"And  toward  the  priest's  house,  too!" 

A  moment  later  we  were  telling  it  all  below  to  Colonel 
Frank  Johnson,  Milam's  successor  as  our  leader.  John- 
son was  sympathetic,  not  about  the  carriage,  but 
about  the  soldiers  occupying  the  priest's  house. 

"Good,"  he  ejaculated.  "We'll  do  it  to-night — now 
—right-off!" 


234  THE  LONE  STAR 

He  rattled  off  his  orders  in  the  same  impulsive  way. 
In  five  minutes  a  hundred  of  us,  including  the  Grays  and 
some  Brazoria  planters,  followed  him  out  into  the  rain. 
We  kept  back  of  the  street,  and  threaded  our  way 
through  gardens  and  backyards,  aiming  for  the  rear  of 
the  priest's  house.  We  got  as  far  as  the  garden  wall  of 
this  house,  when  a  cry  in  Spanish  rang  out  behind  the 
wall  and  an  escopeta  blazed  wildly.  The  Texans  yelled, 
and  started  up  and  over  the  wall  like  a  pack  of  wolves. 
The  clangorous  wee  hell  of  sharp  in-fighting  began  at 
once  on  the  other  side.  But  at  the  first  alarm,  as  I 
sprang  at  the  wall,  Buckalew  jerked  me  back.  Deaf 
Smith  was  with  him. 

"Here,  this  way,"  he  said. 

My  brother  Phil,  clinging  to  the  top  of  the  wall,  saw 
that  I  was  called  off,  and  he  too  dropped  back.  He 
suspected  that  there  was  excitement  of  a  more  exclusive 
nature  forward,  and  he  did  not  propose  to  be  deprived. 
It  was  so  like  the  old  days  when  he  construed  any  whisper 
of  our  old  mammy  to  me  as  involving  high-shelf  jars  in 
the  pantry  that  I  all  but  laughed,  even  at  that  moment. 
But  the  moment  was  a  second  only,  for  we  four  half- 
circled  the  garden  and  house  on  the  run,  and  came  out 
on  the  street  in  front.  And  there,  at  the  door,  was  the 
carriage  from  the  barracks,  and  a  considerable  man 
was  languidly  knocking  down  other  men  with  his  fists. 
One  of  these  men,  being  caught  on  the  tip  of  the  chin, 
reeled  backward  against  me,  but  I  flung  him  on  into  the 
gutter,  as  when  one  unknowingly  touches  a  toad.  The 
fellow  was  Lush  Yandell. 

"  Ton  honour,  gentlemen,"  spoke  the  considerable 
man  who  was  knocking  the  others  down,  "you're  in 
time." 

He  was  dusting  the  palms  of  his  hands,  one  against 
the  other,  and  was  greeting  Buckalew  as  though  they 


CREDITORS  235 

had  met  at  the  church  door  on  their  way  in  to  service. 
Of  course,  the  man  was  Gritton. 

Yandell  picked  himself  up,  saw  Gritton  reinforced, 
and  ran  bellowing  his  rage  toward  the  barracks,  his 
ruffians  following.  They  left  the  carriage  behind. 

"Nan?     Where's  Nan?" 

Buckalew  darted  into  the  house  to  see  for  himself, 
the  rest  of  us  with  him.  Through  the  back  way  our  men 
were  rushing  in  from  the  garden.  An  inner  door  opened, 
and  two  women,  hurriedly  dressed,  ran  among  us. 

"Daddy!"  cried  the  first,  and  two  white  arms 
circled  Buckalew 's  neck.  But  one  of  those  gleaming 
white  arms  straightened  out  across  his  shoulder  to  me, 
and  if  you  wish,  you  may  believe  that  I  seized  that 
proffered  hand,  even  though  it  were  behind  her  father's 
back. 

"But  I  thought,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  thought,  Harry, 
that  you  were  still  in  Goliad  ? " 

Gritton,  evidently,  had  not  remembered  seeing  me 
between  our  lines  long  enough  to  mention  it  to  her. 

"Now,  now,  you  little  catamou't,"  scolded  Buckalew, 
getting  crabbed,  rapturously  crabbed,  as  he  gave  Nan 
one  more  hug,  and  crushed  Mrs.  Long's  hand,  and  hugged 
Nan  again,  and  clapped  Deaf  Smith  on  the  back,  then 
back  to  Nan,  and  pounded  me  on  the  chest,  or  anywhere, 
then  to  Mrs.  Long  again,  and  so  on  with  this  endless  chain 
until  he  was  his  old  crabbed  self  again.  "Now  then, 
missy,  out  of  this  you  get.  Yes,  yes,  and  there's  the 
hack  at  the  door." 

"But  I  don't  want  to,"  Nan  protested.  "It  isn't 
every  day  that  I  can  sit  at  my  window  and  see  a  battle, 
and  to-morrow — Please,  Daddy,  only  till  to-morrow." 

Nor  was  it  any  use  to  urge  danger. 

"But  there's  Mrs.  Long,"  at  last  said  Deaf  Smith, 
and  Nan  at  once  complied.  She  herself  would  see  that 


236  THE  LONE  STAR 

Mrs.  Long  got  safely  back  to  camp.  She  led  the  way 
to  the  carriage,  put  the  old  lady  in,  and  followed.  Phil 
leaped  to  the  box,  and  took  the  reins.  That  boy's 
lightning-like  decision  outran  the  reproof  of  veterans. 
Buckalew,  seeing  him  there,  got  into  the  carriage. 
Gritton  and  I  both  started  to  get  in,  too,  but  at  the  same 
time,  and  the  door  was  not  large  enough. 

The  Briton  paused,  stroked  his  moustache,  and  was 
indolently  amazed  at  my  ill-breeding.  "Ah,  Mr.  Ripley, 
sir,"  he  drawled. 

Twice  before  Nan  had  said,  "Another  time."  I 
pinioned  his  arms  to  his  side,  and  braced  myself  to  swing 
him  into  the  street. 

"A  good  one,  Harry!"  Phil  yelled  gleefully  from  the 
box.  "Toss  him  a  good  one!" 

"Harry!"  came  Nan's  voice  from  within  the  hack. 
It  was  a  stricken  .note  of  horror,  or  of  what  else,  I  can't 
say,  except  that  there  was  that  in  it  which  made  me  drop 
Mr.  Gritton  like  a  hot  poker. 

"Ah,  imitating  our  little  brother,  eh?"  said  Gritton. 

I  almost  had  him  again,  but  Nan's  head  was  thrust 
out  the  window.  "Harry,"  she  cried,  in  a  kind  of 
hysteria,  "you — oh  yes — you,  you  forget  my  obligations 
to  Mr.  Gritton." 

I  drew  back  sullenly,  and  let  him  take  the  last  seat 
in  the  carriage. 

"Harry,  Harry,  Harry!"  she  repeated,  half-laughing, 
but  angrily  too.  Her  face  showed  pique.  Would  she 
have  me,  then,  thrash  him  in  spite  of  her?  Or — or  could 
it  be  because  I  had  let  him  take  that  last  seat?  Another 
time!  Yet  another  time,  and  then  I,  like  Phil,  would 
outrun  reproof.  But  no,  she  was,  of  course,  angry 
because  I  had  offered  an  indignity  to  her  good  protector. 
And,  of  course,  I  was  in  the  wrong.  I  kntw  I  was  at 
once,  and  felt  it  acutely,  too.  I  shut  the  door  for  them; 


CREDITORS  237 

slammed  it,  possibly,  and  they  drove  off  without  me. 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  killed  in  the  morning.  I  was 
deadly  in  earnest  as  to  that.  The  chances  were  good, 
too.  I  wanted  no  more  to  do  with  girls,  so  it  was  best 
to  get  killed. 

Before  morning  Phil  was  back  with  us  in  the  priest's 
house.  He  was  not  one  to  miss  the  supreme  fight  of  all. 
Nan,  he  said,  could  explain  nothing  to  her  father  as  to 
the  mysterious  episode  of  the  carriage.  It  had  come  for 
her,  and  that  was  all  she  knew.  Gritton,  however, 
fancied,  y'know,  that  Yandell  had  recognised  Nan  after 
all,  had  discovered  her  new  hiding  place,  had  informed 
General  Cos,  and  that  General  Cos  had  despatched 
carriage  and  Yandell  to  convey  her  to  the  Alamo  or 
elsewhere  in  his  power.  But  Gritton  had  answered  their 
knocking  at  the  door  by  knocking  them  down. 

"Yes,  and  Mr.  Gritton,"  Nan  had  added,  "was  our 
good  friend  throughout." 

The  old  man,  Phil  said,  had  looked  at  her  sharply  as 
she  said  this.  And  then  Phil  had  to  look  at  me  sharply, 
not  knowing,  of  course,  that  I  had  decided  to  be  killed 
within  an  hour  or  so. 

However,  there  were  no  more  of  us  to  be  killed,  just 
then.  During  the  night  we  had  barricaded  doors  and 
windows,  and  made  loopholes,  though  they  bombarded 
us  frantically  all  the  while.  But  at  the  first  light  of 
day,  we  discovered  that  we  could  shoot  point  blank  into 
the  barracks,  or  clear  their  walls,  or,  in  other  words, 
handle  them  on  pretty  fair  terms.  The  citadel  of 
dominion  in  Texas  was  just  across  the  narrow  street, 
at  the  throw  of  a  lariat.  This  patch  of  stone  and  mud, 
gathered  together  a  hundred  years  before  by  soldiers 
and  friars,  had  been  the  sole  man-made  oasis  in  the  space 
of  wilderness.  The  sombre  presidio,  the  moss-grown 
church,  the  mesquite  huts  for  converted  (?)  Apaches, 


238  THE  LONE  STAR 

here  was  the  first  stake  of  civilisation  driven  in  all  Texas. 
And  now  we  later  Texans  had  fought  our  way  thus  far 
to  nail  our  own  colours  on  this  metaphorical  flagstaff. 
There  was  matter  here  for  an  epitome  of  much  history. 

But,  ready  and  greedy  that  morning  for  the  final 
struggle,  we  saw  that  the  barracks  were  empty.  The 
mutinous  garrison  had  taken  refuge  in  the  Alamo.  The 
whole  town  had  fled  there  too,  adding  panic  to  insub- 
ordination. There  was  no  more  fight  left  in  them.  The 
cutthroat  emblem  of  "No  quarter"  came  down,  and  a 
white  flag  begging  for  mercy  came  out.  And  they  had 
it,  this  assassin  army  fresh  from  the  massacre  of  Zacate- 
cas.  They  had  food,  and  aid  for  their  hundreds  wounded, 
and  arms  to  defend  themselves  against  the  Indians  on 
their  march  back  to  Mexico.  They  numbered  fourteen 
hundred,  though  we  scorned  to  count  five  hundred 
convicts  brought  in  chains  to  reinforce  them.  They 
had  lost  fully  three  hundred  killed.  Scratch  off  the 
ciphers,  and  you  have  an  idea  of  our  own  loss.  It  was 
a  thorn  that  rankled  in  the  Mexican  race. 

General  Cos,  the  Perfect  Cuss,  gave  his  word 
of  honour  that  he  would  not  again  oppose  the  reestablish- 
ment  of  the  Mexican  constitution,  for  which  we  had 
just  vanquished  him,  and  we  let  him  go.  But  he  had 
no  sooner  crossed  the  Rio  Grande  than  he  began  raising 
another  army.  He  did  not  relish  our  demonstration 
of  the  personal  equation: 

300=  1,400  -f-  stone  walls  -j-  cannon, 
and     there    was     no     chivalry     in    him.        Word     of 
honour  (sic)  I   As  Mr.  Austin  had  observed,  Perfect  Cuss 
was  not  an  inaccurate  translation. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A    WORD    WITH    NAN 

WE  NOW  held  Texas,  we  the  Texans.  Not  a  hostile 
bayonet  remained.  For  the  third,  or  fourth,  or 
fifth  time — I  lose  count — the  Texans  had  won  Texas. 

But  we  could  picture  the  fury  in  the  basilisk  eyes  of 
that  affable  Napoleon  of  the  West  down  in  Mexico,  of 
the  monstrously  vainglorious  Santa  Ana  who  had  never 
been  whipped.  How  he  must  be  writhing  against 
acknowledgment  of  the  personal  equation!  And  his 
race  with  him,  eight  millions  of  people!  He  and  they — 
well,  we  had  no  doubt  that  they  would  try,  by  a  false 
Santanistic  logic,  to  prove  the  equation  false,  and 
quickly.  The  matter  was  a  question  of  race  now,  and 
we  few  thousand  American  settlers  were  waiting  for 
Santa  Ana  and  his  hordes,  waiting  as  we  heard  his 
promise  to  leave  only  our  bones  on  Texan  soil.  It  was 
for  the  Murderer  that  we  were  waiting  now. 

But  having  just  driven  the  Mexicans  across  the  border, 
and  with  the  tingling  flush  of  a  good  victory  still  in  our 
veins,  we  were  not  overwhelmed  by  alarms.  Besides,  a 
few  of  us  were  having  Christmas  dinner  with  Deaf 
Smith,  and  in  Deaf  Smith's  own  home,  which  was  an 
incongruous  possession  for  the  lone  wandering  scout. 
Deaf  Smith's  Mexican  wife,  buxom  and  voluble  and 
kindly,  sat  at  one  end  of  the  table,  and  Deaf  Smith's 
little  ones,  chattering  half-English,  half-Spanish,  flooded 
the  house  from  back  corral  to  front  patio.  In  the  "long 
room,"  or  sala,  they  had  a  toy  stable  and  manger,  with 
little  dolls  as  Mary  and  Joseph  and  the  Child  knocking 

239 


24o  THE  LONE  STAR 

there  for  shelter — that  was  Latin-Mexican.  And  they 
had  a  Christmas  tree — and  that  was  Anglo- American. 

We  were  eating  our  Christmas  dinner  in  San  Antonio, 
and  we  had  made  ourselves  room  for  the  eating  of 
that  Christmas  dinner  with  our  rifles.  So  we  could  not 
feel  so  terrifically  impressed  by  Santa  Ana's  blood- 
thirsty promise.  There  would  be  time  enough  later  to 
take  that  matter  up.  And  meantime  Mr.  Austin  was 
winning  us  sympathy  throughout  the  States,  sympathy 
coined  into  volunteers,  from  Georgia,  from  Alabama, 
from  Tennessee,  from  Kentucky;  into  cannon  from 
Ohio;  into  money  and  supplies  from  everywhere.  And 
all  this  welcome  aid  we  confidently  expected  by  each 
ship  to  anchor  at  Copano,  there  below  Goliad,  at  the 
gateway  of  Texas. 

"Oh  I  say,"  said  Gritton,  for  he  was  there,  and  not  an 
undistinguished  guest,  either,  after  his  late  good  service 
to  our  cause,  "I  say,  y'know,"  he  demanded,  lifting  his 
drooping  sandy  lashes  and  looking  at  Nan  across  the 
table,  "how  did  it  happen  now,  Miss  Buckalew,  that 
you  let  me  know  nothing  of  your  father  organising  his 
attack  on  Goliad?" 

"She  outwitted  you,  y'know,"  was  on  my  tongue,  and 
stayed  there. 

"For  you  see,"  he  went  on,  lazily  and  patronisingly, 
"if  I  had  known — u'm'm — well,  if  I  had  known  that, 
we  wouldn't  have  run  away  from  those  inventory  persons 
at  Mrs.  Long's,  or  been-ah — captured,  y'know." 

Nan  could  not  explain  that  it  was  because  she  had  not 
trusted  him,  so  she  answered,  "Because."  But  the 
piquant  daring  in  her  tone,  daring  him  to  upbraid  her, 
ought  to  have  been  reassuring  to  the  dense  and  lucky 
Briton,  in  the  same  degree  that  it  was  nothing  of  the  kind 
for  me.  What  was  worse,  she  glanced  my  way  out  of 
the  tail  of  her  eye  to  see  how  I  was  taking  it,  and 


A  WORD  WITH  NAN  241 

Deaf  Smith's  lusciously  browned  wild  turkey  lost  its 
flavour. 

"Moreover,"  Gritton  continued  languidly,  dropping 
his  imperceptible  chin  into  his  flabby  neck,  and  his  eyes 
to  his  plate,  "the  privilege  of  helping  to  take  Goliad 
would  have  proved — ah — especially  gratifying  to  me  at 
this  time,  since,"  and  his  eyes  shifted  in  sleepy  challenge 
from  Buckalew  to  Bowie,  then  to  Deaf  Smith,  to  the 
real  men  of  our  company,  "since  it  appears  that  I  am 
to  be  stationed  at  that  gateway  of  Texas.  You  gentle- 
men have  heard,  I  imagine,  that  our — ah — Honourable 
Council — desires  to  appoint  me  collector  of  the  port 
at  Copano?" 

The  Council,  it  should  be  explained,  was  a  part  of  our 
provisional  state  government  lately  organised  at  San 
Felipe  under  the  Mexican  constitution.  Representatives 
from  each  settlement  composed  the  Council,  and  divided 
the  functions  of  administration  with  the  governor. 
But  none  of  us  had  heard  that  Gritton  was  to  be  placed 
where  the  pressure  of  a  finger  might  stop  the  very  heart- 
beats on  which  our  struggling  cause  depended  for  life. 
Bowie's  deep  gray  eyes  regarded  the  Englishman  steadily. 
Those  eyes  had  lost  their  old  mocking  daredeviltry. 
The  lines  of  self-mastery  were  about  the  clean-cut 
mouth,  and  drew  the  handsome  lean  face  to  sober 
thought.  The  grief  for  wife  and  children  lost  was  there 
plainly  graven.  Our  Jim  Bowie  was  hardly  a  well  man. 
He  suffered  from  a  cold,  which  might  be  the  beginning 
of  the  winter  sickness.  He  looked  at  the  Englishman 
steadily,  musingly,  but  he  made  no  comment.  But 
Phil  did. 

"The  thunder  you  are! "  said  Phil,  though  no  one  had 
looked  to  him  to  say  anything. 

The  others  frowned,  perhaps  at  Phil's  readiness  of 
tongue,  or  possibly  at  his  frank  suspicion.  Gritton's 


242  THE  LONE  STAR 

loyalty  was  not  a  thing  to  be  questioned  now,  and  a 
boy's  instinctive  aversion  could  have  no  place  in  a  mat- 
ter so  grave.  I  should  mention,  though,  that  Nan 
did  none  of  the  frowning.  Instead,  her  black  eyes  opened 
wide,  and  she  turned  on  Phil  inquiringly,  evidently 
trying  to  probe  her  own  instincts  by  means  of  his.  Nor 
did  Gritton  frown.  His  eyebrows  only  lifted.  He 
was  lazily  interested  in  Phil  as  a  specimen. 

"Naturally  then,  Miss  Buckalew,"  said  Gritton, 
"I  regret  that  those  fifty  men  storming  Goliad  could 
not  let  me  share  in  that  night's  glory.  Eh,  Mr.  Ripley. 
sir,  you  would  have,  eh?" 

Abruptly  Deaf  Smith  waved  his  long  hunting- knife  over 
the  turkey.  "  More  the  bosom,  sonny  ? "  he  asked,  and  I 
passed  my  plate.  Thus  he  saved  me  any  indorsement 
of  Mr.  Gritton. 

"Glory?  Sharing  glory?"  mumbled  Old  Man  Buck- 
alew. "Brimstone  and  tinder  boxes,  Grit,  you'll 
plaguy  well  have  chance  enough  to  get  your  fill,  come 
next  spring,  and  a  heaping  ladle  of  vinegar  and  lightning 
mixed  in.  Might  help  Doc  Grant  and  the  boys  take 
Matamoras,  f'r  instance.  As  young  Rip  says,  keep  the 
war  out  of  Texas  for  a  spell,"  and  he  tried  to  scowl  as 
he  peered  at  me  over  his  great  specs. 

In  other  words,  he  was  his  old  humbug  self  again,  and 
as  transparent  as  ever.  I  half  suspected  that  he  was 
playing  me  against  Gritton  with  reference  to  Nan.  Once 
he  could  eliminate  the  determined  and  dangerous  Eng- 
lishman, my  own  elimination  would  come  easy. 
Needless  to  state,  I  heartily  endorsed  the  first  part  of 
his  sly  tactics.  Nan,  though,  across  there  with  her  high 
Spanish  comb  and  flashing  black  eyes,  or  as  Davy 
Crockett  might  say,  like  a  handsome  piece  of  change- 
able silk,  first  one  colour,  then  another,  but  always 
the  clean  thing,  was  sharp  enough  for  both  of  us 


A  WORD  WITH  NAN  243 

together.  Any  time  she  spoke  to  Gritton,  which 
happened  unnecessarily  often,  there  was  a  mischievous 
challenge  my  way  from  under  her  demure  lashes. 

"But  Mr.  Gritton,"  she  protested,  "if  you  keep  the 
Mexicans  busy  at  Matamoras,  then  we'll  miss  it  all  here 
in  San  Antone." 

"In  San  Antone?"  repeated  Gritton,  with  a  sudden- 
ness unusual  in  him.  "You  stay-ah — in  San  Antone?" 

"Why  of  course,  until  spring,  most  likely.  Aunt 
Jane  here  is  going  back  to  Goliad  with  the  Grays,  but  as 
for  getting  to  Nacogdoches  while  the  rivers  are  rampag- 
ing and  the  trails  only  an  endless  hog-wallow — No, 
sir,  7  stay  right  here  with  Mrs.  Smith." 

"You  stay  here  till  spring?"  said  Gritton  again. 

"Why  not?"  I  demanded  resentfully.  I  was  think- 
ing, too,  that  San  Antonio  offered  more  chances  than 
far-off  Nacogdoches  for  my  seeing  Nan  again  soon. 
"Why  not,"  I  repeated,  "since  you  say  yourself  that  the 
Matamoras  scheme  will  keep  the  Mexicans  away  from 
here?" 

Mr.  Gritton  very  nearly  frowned.  It  was  at  least 
a  symptom  of  discomfiture.  Under  his  dense  exterior,  as 
he  gazed  lazily  and  appreciatively  at  Nan,  a  struggle  took 
place.  But  if  there  were  any  warning  on  his  lips,  a 
warning  against  Nan's  remaining  in  San  Antonio,  some 
deeper  motive  prevented  its  utterance. 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,"  he  replied  at  last.  "To  be  sure, 
where  could  there  be  danger,  y'know?  But  if" — and 
the  appraisement  of  Nan's  loveliness  quickened  in  his 
bulby  eyes — "well,  if  Santa  Ana  ever  does  come  it  over 
us — Fawncy  now! — and  reaches  San  Antonio,  then  Miss 
Buckalew  may  count  on  her-ah — devoted  servitor  not 
being  far  behind." 

For  the  littlest  fraction  of  time,  struck  off  by  the 
quivering  of  an  eyelash,  I  thought  that  Nan  did  not 


244  THE  LONE  STAR 

like  it.  But  the  second  after,  I  was  not  sure,  because 
the  taunting  malice  flashed  again  behind  her  lashes  as 
she  glanced  swiftly  to  see  how  I  liked  this  homage  paid 
her  by  Mr.  Gritton.  Had  I  the  man's  drawling  assur- 
ance, either  of  tongue  or  in  certainty  of  performance, 
I  might  have  indulged  an  impulse,  and  sworn  that  she 
could  depend  on  me  too,  but  there  was  nothing  but  to 
take  it  out  in  silent  ill-humour. 

This  humour,  though,  was  not  invisible  to  Nan,  and 
she  played  wickedly  on  my  mood,  until  she  was  a 
hundred-fold  more  vexatious  than  the  little  wild-fire  elf 
I  had  first  known  and  dreaded.  She  made  that  Christ- 
inas dinner  synonymous  with  torment.  Yet  even  so, 
the  Christmas  dinner  was  one  that  I  would  not  have 
missed  for  anything  that  could  be  mentioned.  While 
nearly  all  the  settlers  had  scattered  to  their  homes,  I 
had  stayed  on  after  the  siege  because  of  this  very  feast ; 
which  means,  because  of  Nan.  But  I  was  leaving 
the  same  afternoon  for  my  headright  league  on  the 
Guadalupe,  and  here  she  was,  not  only  indifferent  to 
the  grievous  parting  just  ahead,  but  tolerating  this 
man  Gritton  into  the  bargain.  Yet  the  thought  of  up- 
braiding her  was  the  last  thing  I  should  have  dared. 
Besides,  how  could  I  know  that  that  was  precisely  the 
very  thing  she  was  trying  to  provoke  me  to  do? 

The  dinner  was  over,  and  my  horse  was  at  the  door, 
and  still  she  had  given  me  no  chance  for  a  word  alone. 
At  her  own  suggestion,  indeed,  which  she  voiced  as  a 
joyous  inspiration,  they  all  had  to  troop  outside  and 
see  me  mounted,  and  there  to  drink  the  stirrup  cup. 
Their  hearts  were  good,  and  there  was  that  in  their  fare- 
well that  went  straight  to  my  own.  We  sipped  the 
eggnog  to  the  bottom  of  the  noggins,  and  Nan  herself 
started  to  lead  the  way  into  the  house.  Fuming  and 
reluctant,  I  waved  my  hand  to  them,  jerked  my  bridle, 


A  WORD  WITH  NAN  245 

and  started  down  the  crooked  street.  But  of  course  I 
had  to  look  back,  and  there  was  Nan,  and  alone,  in  the 
doorway.  And,  just  as  though  I  had  done  aught  to 
deserve  remorse,  the  sight  of  her  smote  me.  The  slight 
figure  of  the  little  girl,  her  skirts  blown  by  the  cold  wind, 
her  eyes  following  me,  and  they  were  wide  and  dark 
and  moist,  and  no  wickedness  left — yes,  I  really  thought 
that  the  independent  little  miss  looked  forlorn,  and  I 
had  that  pang  of  remorse.  Optical  illusions  are  often 
preposterous,  you  know. 

I  jumped  from  my  horse,  gave  the  bridle  to  the  first 
peon  handy,  and  hurried  back.  But  when  I  reached 
her,  Gritton  was  there  too,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff.  He 
looked  up,  as  though  I  had  been  gone  for  weeks  and 
was  forgotten. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Ripley,  sir,"  he  said  drowsily.  "Now  I 
want  to  say,  though,  about  those  tentacles  of  the  devil- 
fish, y'know.  If  they — But  no,  you  will  let  them 
squeeze  no  hint  from  you  as  to  the  Matamoras  expedi- 
tion. Yet  may  we  beg  you  again  to  be  careful — very, 
very  careful — Mr.-ah — Ripley,  sir?" 

Nan's  eyes  quickened  hopefully,  but  I  was  not  going 
to  put  myself  in  the  wrong  with  this  fellow  a  second 
time,  and  when  no  stinging  retort  answered  him,  a  trace 
of  scorn  curled  her  lip.  Yet,  according  to  the  optical 
illusion,  she  looked  forlorn  again.  Why  in  the  world 
couldn't  she  dismiss  the  insufferable  bore? 

"Now  those  tentacles" — continued  the  imperturbable 
Gritton,  but  he  got  no  further,  because  at  that  moment 
the  coach  door  of  the  house  opened,  and  Phil  appeared 
leading  his  horse  into  the  street. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Mr.  Gritton,"  said  Phil,  quick  as  a 
flash,  "Miss  Nan  wishes  me  to  ask  you  to  come  inside, 
sir." 

Gritton's  hand  jerked  on  his  moustache.     He  looked 


246  THE  LONE  STAR 

at  Nan,  not  comprehending.  Being  there  before  him, 
she  could  not  have  sent  the  message.  He  was  as  dense 
as  lead,  but  he  was  also  as  hard  to  cut  as  a  diamond, 
with  no  angles,  no  point  of  impact. 

"That's  what  she  wished  me  to  say,  sir,"  Phil  repeated 
obstinately,  seemingly  oblivious  that  Nan  was  present. 

"What  does  the-ah — fel — he  mean?" 

"Only  this,"  said  Nan,  in  a  voice  of  rippling  laughter, 
"he's  really  expressing  my  wishes,  though  how  he 
guessed " 

"Now,"  said  Gritton,  "I  say  the  deuce,"  and  with 
phlegmatic  assurance  not  in  the  least  dented,  he 
turned  slowly  and  left  me  with  Nan. 

"You  see,  Harry,"  said  Phil,  mounting,  "I've  decided 
to  go  with  you  after  all.  I'll  just  ride  down  to  where 
your  horse  is,  and  wait  for  you." 

"But,  young  sir,  not  so  fast!"  cried  Nan,  and  she  ran 
to  him,  giving  him  her  hand  in  farewell,  and  that  brother 
of  mine  bent  from  his  saddle  and  raised  the  hand  to  his 
lips.  He  looked  slyly  at  me  as  he  did  it,  and  he  whis- 
pered something  low,  which  brought  the  flame  into  her 
cheeks.  Then  he  was  gone,  and  at  last  I  could  have  a 
word  with  Nan.  But  I  was  suddenly  taken  with  hope- 
less incompetence.  Looking  down  at  her,  I  quivered 
in  the  acute  desire  for  a  kiss,  and  I  only  stood  there, 
awkwardly,  restively,  and  awed  at  the  daring  of  the 
thought. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  she  said  wearily,  though  there  was 
a  note  of  growing  anger  in  her  voice.  Now  what  could 
I  have  done  in  this  last  moment  to  offend  her?  But 
this  much  was  certain:  in  the  matter  of  a  kiss,  there 
was  less  to  be  ventured  than  ever. 

"Good-bye,"  I  mumbled,  not  daring  even  to  press 
her  hand. 

The  anger  grew  to  the  fury  of  tears. 


. 

IBP 


'Well,  good-bye,'  she  said  wearily" 


A  WORD  WITH  NAN  247 

"Oh,  good-bye!"  she  cried,  and  turned  swiftly  into 
the  house. 

"Wait!"  I  shouted  desperately,  and  was  suddenly 
very  brave,  but  the  door  had  slammed  behind  her.  I 
joined  Phil  in  a  very  glum  mood. 

"Well?"  said  he,  as  we  rode  out  of  the  town. 

"Well  what?" 

"Well — oh,  you  know,  just  well?  How  well?  Was 
she  good  to  you?" 

"She's  a  girl,"  I  replied  crossly. 

"But " 

"Oh  shut  up,  Phil,  and  tell  me  why  aren't  you  going 
on  with  your  Grays  to  Goliad." 

"Time  enough  to  meet  them  there  later.  I  want  to 
see  more  of  you,  Harry,  and  your  ranch,  and  Yappe, 
and  old  L'fitte.  Now  about  Miss  Nan " 

"Nan's  a  girl,"  I  repeated  dismally.  "There's  no 
understanding  her.  She's  mad  as  a  hornet,  though 
about  what " 

"What  did  you  do,  then?" 

"I  didn't  do  anything,  except  say  good-bye." 

Phil  looked  at  me  quickly,  scornfully,  Then  he 
whistled. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  stop  it!"     I  commanded. 

"Do  you  know,  Harry,"  answered  Phil  with  deliber- 
ate fervour,  "that  you  are  one  plum'  idiot?" 

"Look  here,  what  did  you  tell  her  just  now,  that  made 
her  cheeks  so  red?" 

"Well,"  said  Phil,  "that's  probably  what." 

"What's  what?" 

"About  the  plum'  idiot." 

Still,  that  ought  not  to  have  made  her  cheeks  so  red. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

DISCORD 

GLEAMING  ivory  against  ebon,  the  expanse  of  white 
in  a  pair  of  eyes,  high-pitched  laughter  and 
stuttering  lingo,  of  such  was  the  joy  of  my  nigger  Yappe 
when  Phil  and  I  ended  our  two  days'  journey  through 
driving  sleet  and  hailed  him  from  the  bank  of  the 
Guadalupe.  He  ferried  us  across  in  a  new  flatboat  of 
his  own  making,  and  then  there  was  L'fitte  too,  all 
yelps  and  leaps  and  low  whines.  And  again,  the 
Peasantry,  who  were  as  delighted  as  children  that  I 
had  not  been  killed  while  killing  their  fellow  country- 
men. All  this  made  for  the  blessedness  of  home,  which 
is  the  welcome  awaiting  one  there.  Phil  and  I  knew 
the  feeling  as  the  door  of  my  cabin  opened,  and  the 
bleak  roaring  of  the  storm  mellowed  to  the  cheery  roar 
of  the  hearth. 

Yappe  stripped  us  of  our  cloaks  and  boots  and  dripping 
clothes,  and  coddled  us  in  bear  rugs,  and  we  ate  and 
drank  what  he  brought,  and  afterward  we  smoked  and 
talked  of  my  landed  estate.  After  a  time  it  began  to 
grow  on  us  that  Yappe's  manner  was  flustered,  and  that 
the  same  was  slowly  getting  the  better  of  his  joy  in  us. 
Before  long,  indeed,  he  must  explode,  so  I  opened  the 
valve  by  calling  for  his  report  as  majordomo.  And 
that  report,  coming  from  a  majordomo,  was  unique. 
Yappe  had  been  laying  up  remonstrance  for  a  long  time, 
and  now  he  vented  it  all  as  fast  as  the  wrathful  words 
could  race  and  tumble. 

"An*  yo'  pa  wuz  jes*  de  same  way,"  he  vociferated. 

248 


DISCORD  249 

"De  same  way,  xactly,  jes'  a  spen'frist  blade,  'long 
o'  Gen'ul  Long  an'  ennybody  'et  come  an*  ast  him  fo' 
his  house  an'  home.  An'  heah  you,  Mah's  Harry,  sign 
awduhs  fo'  de  Ahmy  o'  de  People,  an'  heah  come  gemmen 
wif  dem  frum  Majah  Val'tine  Bennet,  quahtuhmah's 
gen'ul,  an'  dey  took  all  de  cawn,  an'  po'k,  an'  hawgs, 
an'  cattle,  an'  hawses  we  got.  Yassuh,  an'  de  ahs'nul 
too,  an'  down  to  de  las'  deuh  skin  fo'  brogans.  An* 
wha'  we  got  lef,  Mah's  Harry?  Yassuh,  we  got  ru'na- 
tion  stah'un  us  in  de  face;  an'  you,  Mah's  Baby  Phil, 
don'  you  laugh  nuther!" 

We  had  yet  something  else,  too,  and  Yappe  told  us 
of  it  defiantly,  rather  hoping  that  I  would  chop  his  head 
off.  He  meant  that  we  had  enough  seed  corn  for  the 
next  planting,  which  he  had  hidden  from  our  commis- 
sariat agents.  He  had  started  his  ploughing  already, 
and  looking  out  the  window,  we  saw  that  there 
would  be  enough  more  corn  to  feed  a  regiment. 
Involuntarily  we  had  gotten  the  habit  of  calculating 
cornfields  in  terms  of  regiments.  Altogether,  Yappe 
put  me  in  a  happy  frame  of  mind.  I  had  been 
sensitive  about  my  poor  offerings,  but  the  Army 
of  the  People  had  not  scorned  them  after  all.  And 
here  was  Yappe's  new  crop  promising  fine  for  next 
spring. 

But  yet  more  exalted  sensations  were  to  be  mine 
when  Phil  and  I  rode  into  Gonzales  a  few  days  later. 
I  wanted  to  enlist  in  the  regular  army  which  Sam 
Houston,  as  commander-in-chief  under  our  provisional 
government,  was  then  organising  at  San  Felipe  to 
oppose  Santa  Ana  in  the  spring.  But  at  Gonzales 
there  was  news  that  started  my  heart  to  fluttering 
like  a  duck  in  a  puddle,  as  Davy  Crockett  would  say. 
Most  of  my  old  neighbours  of  the  settlement  had 
returned  to  their  farms  after  the  siege,  and  there  were 


250  THE  LONE  STAR 

a  number  of  them  in  Gonzales  as  Phil  and  I  rode 
through  the  street  of  grass  and  mud  up  to  Captain  Al 
Martin's  store. 

"Land  of  freedom  and  fiddlesticks,  if  it  ain't  Paul 
Revere!"  cried  the  chubby  captain,  pushing  him- 
self to  his  feet  from  the  top  of  a  barrel,  and  appearing 
in  the  door  with  his  coonskin  vest  tightly  buttoned 
against  the  cold  wind  and  his  shirt  sleeves  rolled  up  to 
the  elbow.  From  the  tops  of  other  barrels  and  kegs 
there  emerged  also  the  grisly  misanthrope,  Jack  Castle- 
man,  and  lean  Alcalde  Zeke  Williams  with  his  sharp 
nose  and  wiry  goatee,  and  the  big,  soft-voiced  Major 
Kerr,  and  Old  Paint  Matt  Caldwell,  now  captain,  and 
Val  Bennet,  now  major,  and  Pl£cido  Benevides  from 
De  Leon's,  now  captain,  who  had  led  one  of  Johnson's 
companies  in  the  assault  on  San  Antonio.  Caldwell 
and  Bennet  had  been  in  the  same  affair,  so  that  we 
were  all  companions  in  arms  as  well  as  neighbours. 
But  I  had  come  to  regard  the  gatherings  of  these 
planters  in  Al  Martin's  store  as  a  gathering  of  the  nation 
in  embryo,  and  now,  when  they  burst  forth  with  their 
news,  the  ring  of  it  in  my  ears  was  certainly  like  the 
call  of  a  nation. 

"Now  we've  cotched  you,  sonny,"  announced  Jack 
Castleman,  spitting  tobacco  and  distilling  vinegar, 
"ye've  got  to  understand  that  we've  done  gone  and 
voted  you  inter  th'  Council." 

And  that  was  the  news!  They  had  made  me  a  part 
of  the  first  American  government  in  Texas! 

"You  see,"  Martin  explained,  "we  know  as  how  you 
want  to  keep  the  scrape  out  o'  Texas;  and,  by  the  Dogs 
of  War  and  all  their  yellow  pups  south  o'  the  Rio  Grande, 
we  do  too.  And  we  mean  to  lick  'em  in  their  own 
kennels.  But  while  we're  away  doing  it,  we  want  a 
man  to  back  us  up  in  the  Council.  The  Governor  is 


DISCORD  251 

getting  stubborn  already,  and  it's  for  the  Council  to 
set  him  right." 

"But  how,"  I  stammered,  all  flushed  with  pleasure, 
"how'd  you  come  to  think  that  I " 

"Now  none  of  your  worrying  about  that,"  said  Bennet. 
"We  begun  to  settle  on  you  even  back  in  San  Antone. 
Doc  Grant  himself  spoke  of  you,  and  that  other  Brit- 
isher who  risked  his  neck  bringing  us  the  information 
that  led  to  the  assault,  he " 

"You  mean  that  Gritton  spoke  of  me  too?" 

"Yes,  and  about  the  first  one,  's  far's  I  can  recollect. 
He  fawncied,  y'  know,  that  you  were  the  very  fellah  or 
the  Council." 

"Now  Rip,"  said  Cal dwell  in  his  most  plaintive 
Tennessee,  "hit  air  a  case  o"  Paul  Revere  agin.  We 
'p'int  you  to  do  the  work,  whilst  we  mosey  off  to  Mata- 
moras  fer  the  high  jinks." 

But  at  Gritton's  instigation?  There  was  the  sting 
in  the  honey — Well,  no  matter.  I  was  a  member  of  the 
Council  now,  a  man  among  men,  and  men  had  chosen 
me.  What  difference  could  Gritton  make? 

"Anyway,  I  don't  like  it,  Harry,"  said  Phil,  though 
the  boy  was  proud  for  me  over  the  astounding  honour. 

We  parted,  my  brother  and  I,  that  same  day,  he  to 
rejoin  his  company  at  Goliad,  and  I  to  go  on  to  San 
Felipe  with  Major  Kerr,  who  had  been  elected  to  the 
Council  by  the  planters  of  Matagorda.  By  the  first  of 
the  year  we  had  formally  taken  our  seats  in  the  Council 
Hall.  The  seats  were  hide-bottom  chairs,  the  Hall  a 
log  house  without  ceiling  or  plaster,  whose  windows 
were  glazed  in  canvas  to  shut  out  the  cold.  But  there 
was  parliament,  congress,  self-government,  and  we, 
representing  the  thirteen  settlements — happy  analogy 
to  the  Thirteen  Colonies — cherished  a  high  sense  of  our 
duties.  We  named  a  municipality  after  gallant  old 


252  THE  LONE  STAR 

Ben  Milam.  We  bought  two  schooners  to  start  a  navy. 
We  lighted  patriotic  fires  by  proclamation  and  appeal, 
or  tried  to.  But  the  Texans  were  lethargic.  They 
could  not  believe  that  Santa  Ana  would  risk  insurrection 
behind  his  back,  and  if  he  did,  what  more  easy  than  to 
crush  him  like  a  fly  ?  The  inrush  of  volunteers  from  the 
States  stopped  also,  as  we  could  not  raise  the  money  to 
support  them.  Austin  had  impoverished  himself. 
So  had  the  few  other  Texans  of  means.  The  only  thing, 
then,  was  to  make  the  enemy  contribute.  We  simply 
had  to  take  Matamoras.  Besides,  we  were  fighting  the 
Mexican  fight.  As  Mr.  Austin  himself  had  urged,  we 
must  at  least  give  the  Mexicans  a  chance  to  help  us 
defend  their  own  constitution.  Meantime  we  frowned 
on  secession  talk  at  home,  though  those  rampant 
youngsters  down  at  Goliad  went  and  declared  for 
independence  notwithstanding. 

I  entered  on  my  duties  in  time  to  help  the  Council 
receive  an  affable  communication  from  the  Governor, 
in  which  we  were  described  as  fruit  of  the  gallows  tree ; 
and  then  We,  the  Council,  decreed  the  Governor  out 
of  the  gubernatorial  chair.  So  there  was  a  difference 
of  opinion  already.  The  Governor  did  not  want  Gritton 
appointed  collector  of  the  port  at  Copano,  but  the 
Council  had  appointed  him  anyhow.  The  Governor 
had  favoured  the  Matamoras  expedition,  and  Houston, 
commander-in-chief,  had  issued  orders  to  Bowie  on 
that  line,  and  now  both  had  changed  their  minds ;  while 
We,  the  Council,  had  not. 

The  Governor  was  an  amiable  fleshy  Kentucky 
gentleman  named  Henry  Smith,  who  had  come  from 
Missouri  with  Austin  and  served  as  alcalde  at  Brazoria, 
but  now  he  was  pigheaded,  and  We,  the  Council,  were 
very  arrogant  with  him.  We  went  over  his  head, 
and  Houston's  too,  and  directed  Colonel  Fannin  at 


DISCORD  253 

Goliad  to  hurry  up  that  Matamoras  expedition. 
Whereat  Colonel  Fannin  desired  to  run  things  too, 
he  being  a  West  Pointer.  Fannin  was  an  eloquent, 
patriotic,  fire-eating  Georgian,  and  ambitious.  Also 
there  was  Colonel  Frank  Johnson,  who  was  an  impulsive 
Virginian,  and  not  discreet.  He  had  led  that  superb 
assault  on  San  Antonio  after  Milam's  death,  and  now 
we  wanted  him  to  cooperate  with  Fannin.  Consequently , 
and  very  naturally,  each  colonel  set  himself  up  as  com- 
mander-in-chief  on  his  own  account.  And  as  though 
three  of  them  were  not  enough,  Dr.  Grant  made  it  known 
that  he  was  acting  commander-in-chief,  after  which  he 
led  out  all  the  volunteers  who  would  follow  him  from 
San  Antonio,  took  what  horses  he  could  from  Johnson 
and  Fannin,  and  went  off  scouring  the  cacti  for  more. 
Our  total  forces  in  Texas  did  not  number  eight  hundred 
men,  and  any  disaster  to  the  two  hundred  with  Grant 
might  well  be  fatal  to  our  hopes,  so  We,  the  Council, 
were  forced  to  support  Grant  along  with  Fannin  and 
Johnson.  Now  Sam  Houston  had  his  own  ideas  about 
stationing  troops  to  meet  Santa  Ana  in  the  spring,  but 
as  he  ran  into  another  commander-in-chief  at  each  turn, 
he  appealed  to  the  deposed  Governor.  The  deposed 
Governor  could  only  give  him  a  furlough,  which  the 
superbly  enraged  Sam  Houston  employed  in  persuading 
the  Indians  to  keep  off  the  warpath.  Thus  We,  the 
Council,  and  we,  Council,  Governor,  commanders-in- 
chief,  and  many  other  loyal  Texans,  stupidly  laid  Texas 
naked  to  the  invader's  sword. 

Ah  me,  I  must  have  taken  myself  seriously  in 
those  days!  I'm  afraid  I  gave  the  impression  of 
being  half-baked.  In  looking  back  on  myself,  I  see 
the  uncompleted  pose,  the  ludicrous  striving  for 
adjustment  in  the  world  of  men.  And  as  a  member 
of  the  Council,  I  thought  myself  at  last  a  man  among 


254  THE  LONE  STAR 

men,  and  I  was  not  going  to  let  myself  forget  that  the 
pigheaded  Governor  and  the  enraged  Houston  were 
only  men  too.  I  had  not  realised  before,  you  see,  how 
very  old  I  was;  that  I  was  actually  twenty-three.  Thus 
the  pendulum  swung  from  diffidence  to  obstinacy,  and 
obstinacy  I  mistook  for  strength.  I  disdained  the 
Governor  and  Houston  for  changing  their  minds.  I 
fretted  when  they  argued  that  the  Matamoras  scheme 
involved  a  march  over  deserts  without  a  commissary, 
without  horses,  without  money,  and  with  only  a  few 
hundred  men.  Yet  how  laboriously  did  I  sweat  over 
each  measure,  and  with  what  ponderous  decision  did 
I  cast  my  vote!  I  suspect  that  I  had  a  vague  notion 
of  being  an  organiser  of  victory  while  labouring  over 
charts  with  furrowed  brow,  figuring  out  where  to 
give  battle,  what  terms  to  grant  the  vanquished,  and 
torturing  every  thought,  every  moment,  for  the  Texas 
I  had  made  my  own  country. 

But  one  day  a  letter  came  from  my  father.  We  had 
established  the  first  mail  service  in  Texas,  and  I  had 
been  writing  home  regularly,  and  my  father,  no  doubt, 
had  read  between  the  weighty  lines.  He  was  then  in 
Congress,  and  some  teamsters  with  a  train  of  provisions 
subscribed  in  Natchitoches,  La.,  brought  me  his  letter. 
And  in  it  were  these  words,  laid  like  a  whip  across  the 
raw  flesh  of  vanity: 

"Look  here,  son,  hadn't  you  better  think  a  little 
more  of  Texas,  and  less  of  yourself?  Try  it!" 

The  smart  of  the  reproof  lay  first  in  the  sense  that  it 
was  not  deserved;  then,  little  by  little,  in  the  sense 
that  it  was  deserved.  I  began  to  understand  that  I 
harmonised  as  badly  with  the  universe  in  my  over- 
weening cocksureness  as  before  in  my  diffidence,  and 
this  old-fashioned  parental  scolding  jolted  me  back 
to  the  old  receptive  attitude  of  being  willing  to  learn. 


DISCORD  255 

So  I  tried  to  think  less  of  my  own  opinions,  and 
more  of  Texas.  But  there  was  already  the  whirlwind 
to  reap. 

One  day  toward  the  last  of  February  Sam  Houston, 
and  Deaf  Smith  behind  him,  came  riding  into  San 
Felipe  like  all  the  demons,  and  threw  themselves  from 
steaming  horses  before  the  log  cabin  that  we  called  the 
Executive  Mansion.  We,  the  Council,  had  been  dropping 
away  until  there  was  barely  a  quorum  left,  but  the  few 
of  us  huddled  around  the  fire  in  the  Council  Hall  knew 
from  Houston's  towering  fury  that  his  news  was  of  the 
blackest.  Nor  did  we  have  to  wait  long.  Directly  he 
burst  in  on  us,  he  and  Deaf  Smith  and  the  Governor,  the 
latter  white  to  the  lips.  The  domineering  Houston 
glowered  at  one  man  and  then  another.  His  lofty  spirit 
was  warped  and  frenzied.  He  wanted  a  brawl  then  and 
there.  His  great  chest  heaved,  throbbing  veins  purpled 
his  lionlike  countenance,  and  for  the  invective  choking 
him,  he  could  not  speak  at  first.  He  dashed  his  military 
cap  on  the  table,  and  tossed  back  the  old  blue  coat  he 
wore  until  its  blood  red  lining  flaunted  us  as  a  challenge. 

"Now,  by  all  eternal  damnation,"  he  roared,  "are  you 
satisfied?  Are  you,  honourable  gentlemen  of  the 
Council — Bah,  you  dam'  rascals,  suppose  you  stop  him 
now." 

We  were  on  our  feet,  but  not  for  his  abuse. 

"Stop  who?"  we  stammered. 

"Who?"  he  shouted.  "Who,  but  the  great  earth- 
shaker,  the  man  on  whom  black  fates  attend!  Who,  but 
Sant'  Ana  himself!  As  well  one  despot  as  a  dozen, 
though,  and  now  you've  brought  Sant'  Ana  on  us.  Deaf 
Smith  here  can  tell  you  that  he's  crossed  the  Rio  Grande, 
and  the  Eternal  knows  how  many  thousand  yellow  imps 
crowd  behind  him,  drawing  lots  already  for  our  women, 
murdering  every  white  man,  bringing  their  convicts  to 


256  THE  LONE  STAR 

settle  in  our  homes  after  us.  Speak  up,  honourable 
bunglers  of  the  Council,  are  you  satisfied  with  your 
work?  Abyss  of  hell,  without  your  outrageous  usurpa- 
tion I'd  now  be  on  the  frontier,  and  an  army  behind  me 
to  meet  them.  But  no,  Sam  Houston  gives  way,  O 
chiefs  of  race  divine,  that  you  may  by  one  god-like  blow 
crush  this  viper  overnight." 

"There's — there's  Grant?"  one  of  us  faltered. 

Houston  flung  out  his  powerful  arms. 

"Ha,  the  acting  commander-in-chief,"  he  sneered. 
"The  ringleader  of  your  lawless,  reckless,  piratical 
expedition  against  Matamoras.  As  if  Mexicans  have 
not  been  fortified  there  for  weeks.  As  if  your 
slimy  Mr.  Gritton,  your  honourable  collector  of  the  port 
at  Copano,  had  not  advised  them  I  As  if  your  marauding 
horse-thieves  got  any  further  than  the  mesquite  flats — 
bah!" 

" But  Grant?"  we  demanded. 

Houston  folded  his  arms,  and  his  lips  pressed 
together  until  there  was  no  blood  left  in  them. 

"They  tied  Grant,"  he  said,  "to  a  wild  mustang,  to 
the  tail  and  hind  hoofs.  They  called  that  a  passport 
home.  So  much  for  one  brave  meddler  wasted,  though 
he  was  the  best  spared." 

Deaf  Smith  growled  low,  and  turned  to  the  window. 
A  palsied  shiver  passed  over  the  Governor.  A  member 
of  the  Council  drove  his  boot  among  the  blazing  logs,  as 
though  he  were  kicking  a  dog. 

"And — and  those  with  Grant?"  he  asked. 

"Ambushed,  sir!  Sixty  all  told,  all  who  would  not 
listen  when  I  begged  them  not  to  follow  the  horse- thief 
Grant.  But  Placido  Benevides  escaped.  You  can  ask 
him." 

"And  Johnson?" 

"Ambushed  also,  though  Johnson    and    three  others 


DISCORD  257 

saved  themselves.  That  makes  one  hundred  men  lost 
to  Texas  already." 

His  voice  of  thunder  broke  as  he  told  us  that. 

There  was  a  third  question  trembling  on  our  lips,  but 
we  lacked  the  courage  to  ask  more.  If  the  answer 
should  be  still  the  same!  But  I  thought  of  Phil,  and  I 
could  endure  it  no  longer. 

"And  those  at  Goliad?"  I  begged.  "Those  with 
Fannin?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Houston,  the  storm  of  his  wrath 
gathering  anew,  "let  us  not  forget  that  there's  yet 
another  commander-in-chief,  though  this  one,  Fannin, 
does  nothing  except  to  -plan  to  sail  to  Matamoras, 
except  to  gather  every  freshly  landed  volunteer  to 
himself  at  Goliad.  And  there  they  are  starving  now, 
poor  boys,  and  freezing  too,  and  as  for  fighting,  they 
haven't  powder  or  shot.  By  Heaven,  why  do  the 
provision  ships  from  the  States  fail  to  come  in  this  hour 
of  our  direst  need?  Tell  me  that,  gentlemen.  Tell  me 
why  they  never  reach  Copano.  Tell  me  how  it  happens 
that  they  are  captured  by  Mexican  privateers.  Ex- 
plain, if  you  can,  the  very  excellent  bureau  of  informa- 
tion that  the  Mexicans  appear  to  have  at  Copano.  You, 
Ripley,  can  you  explain  that?  But  there,  you  need  not 
try.  The  question  is  between  you  and  your  country, 
boy.  Between  you  and  your  God." 

"It  is,  sir,  it  is!"  I  cried.  "Because — because  my 
brother  is  at  Goliad." 

My  anguish  was  a  new  note,  and  Houston  paused  as  a 
caged  lion  before  an  unfamiliar  touch  of  colour.  When 
he  spoke  again,  he  was  no  less  stern,  but  his  voice  had 
softened  a  little. 

"The  worse  for  us  then,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  not 
there  in  your  brother's  place,  and  in  the  place  of  the  four 
hundred  other  brave  fellows  that  Texas  may  lose.  An 


258  THE  LONE  STAR 

army  division  is  marching  against  them  now,  and  Sant' 
Ana  himself  with  four  thousand  men  is  hurrying  to 
San  Antonio.  I  have  sent  Bowie  and  Travis  there  to 
San  Antone,  and  they  have  just  one  hundred  and  fifty 
men.  A  hundred  and  fifty  half-naked  men,  gentlemen 
of  the  Council,  to  stop  that  overwhelming  horde!  And 
in  the  rest  of  Texas,  even  to  the  Louisiana  line,  there's 
not  a  corporal's  guard.  Give  me  language,  Heaven,  to 
express  my  anguish  of  soul!  Deaf  Smith  tells  me  that 
this  scaly  serpent,  this  crafty  Napoleon  of  the  West,  is 
distributing  arms  among  renegade  Texians.  But  we, 
gentlemen,  with  our  cursed  dissensions,  we  have  helped 
him  more  than  traitors.  That  dire  sister  of  the 
slaughtering  power,  Discord,  has  betrayed  Texas  to  his 
vengeance.  And  now,  honourable  and  magnificent 
architects  of  victory,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?  The  most  of  you  have  run  away  from  your  mischief- 
making  posts,  cringing  before  the  wrath  of  the  people  in 
their  convention  next  month.  But  until  then,  what? 
What  shall  we  do  for  a  government,  for  a  commander- 
in-chief  ?  Or  does  any  gentleman  care  to  suggest  that, 
by  the  will  of  the  people,  Sam  Houston  is  not  still  their 
commander-in-chief  ? " 

Not  one  cared  to  lift  the  gauntlet.  We  were,  I 
think,  even  grateful  that  he  had  returned.  We  were 
relieved,  too.  His  huge  determination,  his  domineering 
will,  the  masterful  force  of  the  man  despite  his  theatric, 
bull-like  rage,  these  gave  us  a  staunch  anchor  chain  in 
the  hour  of  despair. 

"Will  you,"  I  pleaded,  "will  you  send  me  to  San 
Antone  with  your  orders?" 

"Orders,  sir,  orders?  How  do  you  know  that  I  have 
any  orders?" 

"You  should  have,  sir.     But  if  not " 

If  not,  I  would  go  in  any  case.     Nan  was  there,  and 


DISCORD  259 

that  was  enough.  But  Santa  Ana  would  be  there  too, 
which  was  hideously  more  than  enough,  and  I  meant  to 
do  what  I  could  to  save  Nan  from  him.  Then  there  was 
another  thing,  though  I  had  none  of  the  ready. tongue 
to  say  it;  which  was,  that  deep  within  me  I  was  resolved 
to  use  my  rifle,  my  pistols,  my  knife,  my  bare  hands,  so 
long  as  the  power  to  strike  was  left  in  me,  so  long  as  God 
would  let  me  account  for  yet  one  more  of  the  invaders  I 
had  helped  to  bring  on  Texas.  Declaimings  like  these 
sound  foolish,  but  I  did  not  make  them  even  to  myself. 
The  resolve  was  simply  there,  and  I  was  acting  on  it  as 
naturally  as  when  a  hungry  man  seeks  food.  There 
was  no  other  way  to  settle  the  score  with  my  manhood. 
It  could  count  miserably  little  for  Texas  against  my 
costly  blundering,  but  that  little,  along  with  my  death, 
might  possibly  count  toward  redemption. 

"Have  you  reflected,"  said  Houston,  "that  at  San 
Antone  you  will  find  our  brave  men,  wounded  in  the 
battles  of  Texas  and  sick  from  exposure  in  her  cause, 
who  have  been  stripped  of  their  blankets,  even  of  their 
medicines,  by  your  Dr.  Grant?  Have  you  considered 
the  welcome  a  member  of  the  Council  might  receive 
from  men  in  their  present  dangerous  mood?" 

"You  will  send  me  then?" 

"Wait.  I  have  this  despatch  from  Travis: 'For 

God's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  our  country,  send  us 

reinforcements!' Do  you  think  that  you  would  like  to 

tell  Travis  for  me  that  I  have  no  reinforcements,  due  to 
the  treasonable  usurpation  of  the  honourable  Council?" 

"I'll  contradict  nothing.     Only  send  me." 

"And  if  I  do,  will  you  do  what  I  tell  you?" 

"I  Will  try." 

"Will  you  repeat  my  orders,  whatever  they  are?" 

"If  I  reach  there,  sir." 

"'If?  'If?  By  the  Eternal,  our  infallible  Council  is 


260  THE  LONE  STAR 

suddenly  filled  with  'ifs'!  But  there's  something  better 
than  an  'if  in  your  face,  boy.  Here  then,  you  are  to 
tell  Bowie  and  Travis  to — blow  up  the  Alamo — bring 
off  the  guns — and  fall  back  on  Gonzales." 

"Abandon  the  Alamo?"  we  cried  aghast.  "But 
general,  you're  laying  us  open  to  invasion!  But " 

"  'Buts', "  cried  Houston,  "are  worse  than  'ifs.'  I'm 
making  the  best  of  your  mess,  and  we've  got  to  save  those 
men,  and  those  at  Goliad  too.  Afterward  we'll  think 
about  fighting." 

"But  General — "  It  was  the  Council's  last  ditch  of 
obstinacy. 

Houston  turned  his  back  on  their  clamour,  and  swung 
round  on  me  inquiringly. 

"Write  out  your  orders,  sir,"  I  said,  "and  I'll  take 
them." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

UNDER  A  BLACK  LACE  MANTILLA 

THAT  ride  from  San  Felipe  to  San  Antonio  was  the 
hardest  of  my  life  and  the  least  sparing.  I  calcu- 
lated nothing  as  to  fords  and  ferries,  but  went  down  into 
the  swollen  rivers  wherever  I  struck  them,  holding  to 
my  horse's  tail  as  both  of  us  swam,  and  coming  out  on 
the  other  bank  with  face  and  hands  cut  by  thin  sheets 
of  ice.  I  hardly  stopped  until  at  my  own  ranch  on  the 
Guadalupe,  where  I  took  my  first  full  night's  sleep, 
granted  me  out  of  the  mercy  of  pure  exhaustion,  rested 
my  horse,  and  by  some  prophetic  inspiration  tied  behind 
my  saddle  a  long,  black,  velvet-faced  Spanish  cloak 
that  I  had  bought  in  Mexico. 

Pushing  on  westward,  I  crossed  Cibolo  creek  by  mid- 
afternoon  of  the  next  day,  and  then  spurred  my 
jaded  horse  on  to  the  crest  of  a  low-rolling  hill,  for 
ahead  of  me  I  heard  the  dull  boom  of  cannon.  Here 
I  could  see  San  Antonio  not  fifteen  miles  away,  and 
puff-balls  of  white  smoke  darting  up  above  the  cluster 
of  trees  and  jumble  of  coloured  block-like  houses.  That 
could  mean  one  thing  only,  but  my  more  instant  concern 
was  given  to  a  lone  horseman  racing  like  mad  from  the 
town  toward  me.  A  troop  of  cavalry  midway  on  the 
plain  behind  him  had  just  given  up  the  chase,  but  the 
fugitive's  haste  never  abated.  He  seemed  indifferent 
whether  they  followed  him  or  not.  As  he  galloped 
nearer,  I  recognised  the  plaintive  Tennessean,  Old  Paint 
Caldwell. 

"Yes,"  he  panted,  bringing  his  steed  to  its  haunches, 

261 


262  THE  LONE  STAR 

"they  hev  shore  come,  Sant1  Annie  hisself,  an'  nigh  all 
his  Santanistas,  an'  nothin'  to  hender.  We  didn't  hev 
no  bosses  even  fer  scoutin' — Doc  Grant  took  'em  all — 
so's  we  didn't  know  the  Mex'kins  wuz  near  'tell  one  o' 
the  boys  axually  seen  'em  frum  the  chu'ch  tower,  an' 
we  skeercely  hed  time  to  run  fer  it  into  the  Alamo. 
Them's  partly  our  guns  you  air  hearin'  now,  an'  hit's  been 
jes*  stiddy  bombardment  fer  twenty-fo'  hours.  Travis 
blazed  away  the  fust  when  they  mentioned  surrender, 
and  he's  aimin'  to  fire  another  every  sun-up  long  ez 
thar's  a  man  alive  to  do  it." 

"  But  you,  Paint,  running  away?" 

"Yep,  running  fer  he'p.  To  Gunzalus  fust.  Then 
on  to  the  Brazos.  They'ull  be  holdin'  a  conven- 
tion thar,  signin'  up  a  Declaration  uv  Independence 
more'n  likely,  which  I  hope  to  sign  myself,  but 
mebbe  they'ull  adjourn  to  come  an'  he'p  fight.  South 
Ca'linah  [man  name  o'  Bonham  hez  gone  to  fetch  the 
boys  at  Goliad.  Right  about  face,  now,  Rip,  an' 
we'ull " 

"No,"  I  said  dully,  clasping  his  hand  and  starting 
my  horse  past  him,  "I've  got  Houston's  orders.  He 
wants  them  to  save  themselves." 

' '  Ef  Sam  Houston '  '—began  Old  Paint.  ' '  But  he  don't 
know  'em,  thet's  all!" 

"Still  they  can  get  out,  can't  they?" 

"  O'  cohse  they  kin  git  out,  but  ef  Sam  Houston  j edges 
thet  them  boys  will  step  out  of  Sant'  Annie's  path,  an' 
JDOW  an'  scrape,  an'  ax  him  to  please  to  go  ahead  and 
sweep  like  fire  an'  sword  an'  wolves  clean  to  the  Sabine, 
w'y " 

But  they  could  get  out,  they  could  obey  Houston's 
orders,  and  I  must  try  to  deliver  those  orders. 

"Now  yo*  gittin'  in,"  objected  Old  Paint,  "thar's  a 
diffrunt  question.  No,  'tain't  even  a  question.  Hit's 


UNDER  A  BLACK  LACE  MANTILLA       263 

downright  idjicy.  So  come  along  now,  Rip.  Come 
along  with  me." 

"Good-bye,  Paint,"  I  said  mechanically,  and  left 
him  still  grumbling. 

I  calculated  laboriously  how  not  to  be  caught,  and 
yet  how  to  draw  nearer  the  clutches  of  the  Mexicans. 
The  sheltering  fringe  of  trees  marking  the  little  San 
Antonio  River  gave  me  an  idea  to  work  from,  because 
there  was  shade  for  hiding,  and  on  one  bank,  just  east  and 
across  from  the  town,  were  the  old  mission  buildings  of 
the  Alamo.  I  must  win  my  way  there  to  deliver  Hous- 
ton's message.  Perhaps  Nan  was  there  too,  but  if  not — 
Well,  I  tried  to  put  the  thought  from  me.  Santa  Ana 
had  beaten  me  to  the  town,  and  my  first  hope  of  get- 
ting her  away  was  now  out  of  the  question.  While 
daylight  lasted  I  made  a  long  detour  to  the  south,  and 
came  by  night  to  Juan  Seguin's  rancho,  which  bordered 
the  river  some  two  miles  below  the  town.  Seguin  was 
one  of  our  few  Mexican  sympathisers,  and  had  already 
joined  us  with  a  company  of  rancheros.  Naturally, 
then,  Santa  Ana  had  stripped  bare  his  fields,  barns,  and 
corrals,  but  luckily  for  me,  the  place  was  now  deserted. 
I  put  up  my  horse  in  one  of  the  corrals,  leaving  him 
water  and  the  little  fodder  I  could  gather,  and  then  set 
out  on  foot  toward  the  Alamo. 

It  was  very  dark  along  the  low  river  bank,  and  where 
there  were  no  pecan  groves,  I  kept  to  the  underbrush. 
Then  I  found  a  skiff,  which  was  staked  to  the  bank  near 
some  Mexican's  quinta  and  summer-house.  The  boat 
would  give  me  the  advantage  of  either  bank  in  case  I  was 
challenged,  and  a  moment  later  I  was  paddling  stealthily 
up  the  crooked  little  stream  through  reeds  and  water 
lilies,  choosing  a  course  where  overhanging  branches 
made  denser  the  night.  The  willows  or  tule  switched 
back  into  my  face,  or  hanging  moss  brushed  creepily, 


264  THE  LONE  STAR 

like  spiders,  across  my  eyes.     The  droning  hum  of  all 
the    water    people    made    the    silence    more    ghostly 
but   now   and   again   a   spasm   of   cannonading   ahead 
roused  every  sense  anew  to  the  treachery  of  this  dank 
calm   gloom  around  me. 

My  course  was  a  constant  winding  and  turning 
through  the  old  abandoned  irrigated  ranches  of  the 
early  Spaniards,  and  at  last  the  howling  of  mongrel  dogs 
around  native  huts  of  mesquite  warned  me  that  I  was 
twisting  fairly  into  the  ragged  skirts  of  the  town  itself. 
I  passed  the  mouth  of  a  ruined  ditch  which  had 
served  the  Conquistadores  a  century  and  a  half  for 
irrigation,  and  from  its  width  I  knew  it  must  be  the 
Acequia  Concepcidn.  This  was  a  definite  landmark, 
and  I  was  now  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  Alamo. 
But  as  I  rounded  the  next  turn  a  hoarse  ''Alto  alii!" 
ripped  the  dead  silence  to  tatters.  I  could  not  see 
the  picket,  nor  he  me,  but  he  was  on  the  Alamo 
bank,  and  when  others  came  running  at  his  call,  I  under- 
stood that  they  were  blockading  the  Alamo  against 
outside  communication.  I  was  forced,  therefore,  to 
point  the  skiff  toward  the  bank  nearest  the  town.  The 
sentinels  had  ceased  their  questions  and  chattering,  and 
everything  was  again  as  quiet  as  though  there  had  been 
no  alarm  at  all,  but  I  knew  that  off  there  under  the  trees 
they  were  listening  their  very  hardest.  And  then  a 
rush  had  to  bend  before  the  nose  of  the  skiff,  and 
switch  itself  free  from  under  the  keel  with  a  sharp  hiss. 
Instantly  one  of  the  sentries  fired. 

I  had  already  decided  what  to  do  if  that  happened, 
so  it  is  no  marvel  that  I  did  it  quickly  as  thought,  which 
was  to  give  one  piercing  cry,  throw  my  cloak  to  the  bank, 
and  tip  over  the  boat  with  a  loud  splash.  After  that 
followed  the  silence  of  the  grave.  I  had  landed  in  water 
up  to  my  armpits,  and  there  I  stood,  not  even  lifting 


UNDER  A  BLACK  LACE  MANTILLA       265 

my  hands  against  the  gnats  stinging  my  face.  The 
Mexican  pickets  were  chattering  at  a  great  rate,  telling 
one  another  to  hush  and  listen.  He  who  had  fired 
maintained  that  I  was  dead,  maintained  it  querulously, 
boastingly.  Then  there  was  an  exclamation,  and  the 
word  "bote."  They  had  captured  the  overturned  skiff, 
which  the  current  at  the  bend  had  drifted  over  to  them. 
It  was  more  evidence,  more  argument,  for  my  slayer, 
and  after  an  age  the  others  agreed  with  him.  At  least 
they  had  kept  me  from  the  Alamo  side,  which  was  enough 
in  the  way  of  duty,  and  they  separated  quite  well 
content  with  themselves. 

I  could  hear  their  vivas  near  and  far  as  they  patrolled 
the  bank.  So  there  was  no  getting  across  just  then. 
But  there  was  no  need,  either,  of  standing  longer  in  the 
water,  and  I  slid  one  foot  past  the  other,  being  careful 
not  to  entangle  them  in  the  roots,  and  at  last  emerged 
on  the  low  bank.  Here  I  sat  down  on  my  cloak,  and 
tried  to  figure  hope  out  of  failure.  But  a  new  peril 
quickly  made  me  move.  The  sentries  on  the  opposite 
bank  were  being  relieved,  and  two  of  them  had  taken 
it  into  their  heads  to  cross  over  to  the  town  in  my  skiff. 
I  could  hear  them  putting  it  to  rights,  and  soon  the 
creaking  of  the  oarlocks.  They  were  coming  straight 
toward  me,  and  I  could  only  fall  back  before  them,  if 
even  into  the  town.  But  as  I  went,  I  wrapped  myself 
in  the  cloak,  glad  now  that  it  was  a  cloak,  and  like  the 
Mexicans  who  fear  the  blessed  cold  air,  I  threw  an  end 
across  my  chest  up  over  my  mouth  and  nose.  Let 
Heaven  grant  for  once  that  I  might  be  taken  for  a 
Mexican! 

The  very  first  thing  a  dog  projected  himself  and  many 
yelps  from  a  jacal,  and  deciding  that  I  was  lost,  I  kicked 
at  him  for  pure  chagrin.  But  a  blanketed  Mexican 
passing  by  laughed  sympathetically.  To  kick  lustily, 


a66  THE  LONE  STAR 

to  mutter  guttural  Spanish  oaths,  here  was  my  passport, 
and  I  pushed  on  farther  into  the  town,  thinking  that 
each  footstep  behind  me  must  belong  to  the  sentinels. 
The  crazy  pathway  grew  to  a  narrow,  crooked  street. 
The  jacals  became  continuous  walls,  of  sun-dried  brick, 
of  stucco  facades,  of  stone.  The  Old  World  town  that 
night  was  confusion  and  movement  and  shrill  noises. 
San  Antonio  was  doubling  her  sleepy  population  by  the 
swarthy  army  that  had  trudged  far  and  wearily,  six 
hundred  miles  through  the  wintry  chill,  and  were  now 
sullenly  boisterous  in  the  joy  of  arriving.  Their  women 
were  with  them,  and  these  were  commadres  already  with 
the  rebosa-hoodod  dames  of  the  mesquite  huts.  There 
were  torches  flitting  up  and  down  the  dark  streets. 
There  were  carts  and  oxen  and  pack-mules,  and  squads 
tramping  to  the  barracks,  and  officers  on  horseback 
clattering  everywhere,  swearing  as  they  had  been  sworn 
at  by  their  chiefs. 

There  were  other  cloaked  figures,  too,  of  citizens 
skulking  timorously,  and  I  drew  no  scrutiny  on  myself. 
Now  and  then  a  candle  light  from  behind  barred  windows 
cast  a  faint  glow  out  on  the  street,  but  I  quickened  my 
steps  through  these  areas  of  danger.  I  could  not  resist, 
however,  stealing  glances  at  the  faces  behind  the  bars. 
Curiosity  widened  heavily  lashed  eyes.  The  invasion 
of  so  many  gallant  cavaliers  from  the  capital  promised 
festivity,  life;  and  the  Mexican  daughters  of  gay  old 
San  Antonio  were  expectant.  Often  the  eyes  were 
pretty,  too,  and  ravishing,  but  it  required  a  certain 
beautiful  black  pair  to  make  me  stare,  to  falter  in  my 
course,  and  forget  the  risk.  The  girl  was  peering  out 
musingly,  even  gloomily,  and  her  face  in  the  half-light, 
partly  shrouded  by  a  black  lace  mantilla  over  her  head, 
had  the  softness,  the  witchery,  the  lure  of  mystery. 
My  heart  stopped  right  there.  But  this  was  not  all. 


UNDER  A  BLACK  LACE  MANTILLA       267 

Those  fine  black  eyes  quickened  as  I  came  in  the  patch 
of  light  before  her  window,  and  they  met  my  own  over 
my  cloak. 

"Harry!" 

The  low-whispered  cry  brought  me  up  sharply.  Now 
I  recognised  the  house.  It  was  Deaf  Smith's.  And  the 
girl  was  Nan,  She  slipped  from  the  window,  the  door 
opened,  and  there  she  was. 

"In  here,  Harry,  quick!" 

My  impulse  was  to  gain  that  haven.  The  command 
was  subtle,  too.  But  to  reach  the  Alamo  I  must  do  it 
at  night,  and  this  night  was  better  than  another,  for  in  the 
Alamo  they  must  know  Houston's  orders  before  more 
of  Santa  Ana's  thousands  hemmed  them  round.  Be- 
sides, now  as  well  as  another  time,  I  must  give  over  all 
thoughts  of  Nan.  I  wanted  to  do  what  I  had  to  do, 
which  involved  the  business  of  dying,  without  having 
this  brave  girl's  reproaches  added  to  the  scorpion  of 
conscience. 

I  stopped  rigid  on  the  threshold,  and  hid  her  from  the 
street  behind  my  cloaked  figure.  "I  can't,"  I  whis- 
pered, "and  don't  ask  me  again.  But  tell  me,  why 
didn't  you  at  least  go  to  the  Alamo?" 

She  laughed  softly,  taunting  my  anxiety.  "Never 
fear,"  she  said.  "I'm  safe  here  with  Deaf  Smith's 
wife.  You  yourself  took  me  for  a  Mexican  just  now? 
Hear  those  guitars  up  the  street?  It's  a  fandango,  and 
I'll  bet  you  I  could  go  in  there,  and 

"  No,  and  for  God's  sake,  Nan,  keep  out  of  the  window! 
Even  a  Mexican  girl  isn't  safe  with  eyes  like  yours." 

She  gasped,  but  I  was  too  angry  to  intend  compliments. 

"I  can't  see  without  eyes,  you  know,"  she  objected 
demurely.  "And  I  must,  I  must  watch  for  Daddy. 
He  may  come,  and — Oh  Harry,  if  he  should!  My  poor 
Daddy!" 


268  THE  LONE  STAR 

"But  where  is  he?" 

"As  if  I  knew!  He  was  out  on  a  scout — Listen,  I 
hear  soldiers  marching  this  way.  Oh  quick,  quick, 
come  in!" 

But  I  was  stricken  with  the  thought  that  now  I  must 
leave  her.  I  caught  her  hand,  and  at  the  touch  of  that 
warm  trembling  hand,  I  no  more  knew  what  I  did,  nor 
cared,  but  I  seized  her  round  the  shoulders  and  pressed 
her  close,  and  so  savagely  that  she  gave  a  little  smothered 
cry  of  pain.  Then,  with  the  fever  of  her  crushed  lips 
in  mine,  and  coursing  hence  through  my  veins,  I  turned 
blindly  away. 

Ahead  of  me  up  the  street  was  the  fandango. 
The  clicking  of  castanets,  the  rollicking  laughter  of 
girls,  the  joviality  of  men,  had  gathered  a  crowd  of  loiter- 
ers into  the  light  flooding  from  the  doors  of  the  place. 
If  I  continued  that  way,  I  should  have  to  pass  through 
them.  But  as  I  started  in  the  other  direction,  a  column 
of  infantry  swung  into  the  street  toward  me.  Their 
bayonets  gleamed  in  the  light  of  torches,  and  I  could 
see  that  they  formed  a  hollow  square,  within  which 
marched  a  prisoner.  I  dared  not  go  that  way  either. 

"Here,  Harry,  here!"  whispered  Nan,  holding  open 
her  door.  But  if  I  darted  in  now,  the  officers  of  the 
approaching  column  might  see,  and  suspect  a  fugitive, 
which  would  mean  a  search  of  the  house  and  the  finding 
of  Nan.  Eluding  the  girl's  outstretched  hand,  I  made 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  fandango.  Once  there,  I 
began  working  with  elbows  through  the  crowd,  and  was 
almost  past  the  glare  when  I  all  but  pushed  against 
that  hulk  of  a  brute  whom  you  know  as  Lush  Yandell. 
He  was  in  the  crowd  right  in  front,  his  misshapen  hairy 
head  cocked  to  one  side,  and  his  one  leering  eye  intent 
on  the  scene  within.  He  blocked  completely  the  refuge 
of  the  dark  street  beyond,  and  turning  swiftly  Iqst  he 


UNDER  A  BLACK  LACE  MANTILLA       269 

notice  me  and  snatch  the  cloak  from  my  face,  I  turned 
squarely  into  the  open  doors  of  the  dance-house. 

The  revelry  was  gay  and  furious  in  the  large  patio. 
It  was  the  scene  over  again  of  the  old  Spanish  cavaliers, 
roughened  by  the  wilderness  of  Texas,  who  used  to  bless 
this  mission  town  of  the  chaste  saint  as  a  haven  for  wild 
gallantry  unfettered.  The  cavaliers  now  were  narrow- 
chested  Mexicans  in  gaudy  regimentals.  Their  hands 
shook  on  wine  glasses  held  high.  Their  voices  cracked 
as  they  cheered  two  girls  dancing  the  jota.  All  were 
insolent-eyed  and  swaggering.  Some  were  reeling. 
Tarnished  youths  of  the  town  and  young  hacendados 
posed  with  an  air  as  hosts  to  these  dashing  musketeers, 
and  did  not  wish  it  overlooked  that  they  also  were 
hardened  rakes  who  knew  a  thing  or  two. 

Among  them  I  sauntered  like  a  conspirator  of  the 
conventions,  feigning  a  pose  of  my  own;  of  indifference, 
of  an  habitue".  I  might  have  been  looking  for  a  friend, 
perhaps — the  last  possession  I  should  look  for  there. 
A  door,  a  likely  door,  was  more  to  my  mind.  There 
were  many  doors  opening  on  the  patio,  but  each 
was  only  another  vista  of  the  mad  revelry  everywhere. 
Then  I  came  to  one  before  which  stood  two  dragoons 
with  bared  swords.  Everybody  that  passed  this  door 
gazed  curiously  within,  especially  the  gilded  youths 
and  the  girls.  Some  lingered  until  a  frown  from  the 
dragoons  warned  them  on.  I  also  looked  in,  but  the 
scene  was  as  elsewhere.  A  swart  and  gorgeously  decor- 
ated Mexican,  a  pompous,  clean-shaven  fellow  with 
lustful  eyes,  was  half-reclining  on  a  couch,  and  raising 
a  champagne  glass  to  the  lips  of  a  pert  and  highly  elated 
girl  in  short  yellow  skirt,  red  bodice,  and  slippers  with 
red  heels.  She  sat  beside  him.  Another  girl  sat  at 
his  other  side.  No,  the  scene  was  not  uncommon 
here.  But  the  man  himself  was.  He  resembled  a 


2;o  THE  LONE  STAR 

sullen-browed  Roman  emperor  at  a  drunken  feast.  And 
more,  this  man  lolling  in  this  debauchery  was  the 
President  General  of  Mexico,  His  Excellency  of  the 
Superlative  Degree,  Santa  Ana  himself. 

I  drew  back  quickly  into  the  gay  throng,  and  that 
only  in  time  to  avoid  a  column  of  infantry  that  came 
tramping  in  across  the  patio.  It  was  the  same  column 
that  was  behind  me  in  the  street,  that  had  forced  me 
into  this  place.  I  knew,  because  the  formation  was 
still  a  hollow  square,  and  there  within  marched  the 
prisoner.  He  wore  a  long  great  coat,  with  checks  of 
green  and  gray.  He  blinked  at  the  many  lights  with 
a  wearied  expression  of  boredom,  and  he  indolently 
fondled  his  moustache  as  his  guard  drew  up  before  the 
door  of  the  President  General  and  motioned  him  to 
enter. 

"A-h"  he  drawled,  in  a  tone  faintly  sceptical.  "Ah 
yes,  to  be  sure." 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

BLISS    DEFERRED 

IF  CAUGHT,  I  must  suffer  as  a  spy  in  any  case,  so 
it  was  as  well  to  try  for  what  might  be  gained  by 
spying.  Moreover,  the  temptation  in  seeing  the  rapier 
play,  or  the  play  of  bludgeons,  between  two  such  an- 
tagonists as  the  crafty  Hombre  Funesto  of  Mexico  and 
the  densely  oblivious  Gritton,  drew  me  to  my  peril  as 
the  coil  of  a  python.  It  was  a  drama  of  fascination,  of 
poison,  not  to  be  resisted.  Since  Gritton  was  a  prisoner, 
then  he  could  not  have  been  the  traitor  at  Copano  that 
Houston  supposed;  and  that  being  so,  and  I  got  safely 
away,  possibly  I  might  be  able  to  help  him  through 
learning  more  of  his  predicament.  Many  of  the  revel- 
lers, girls  hushing  their  shrill  laughter  and  tipsy  young 
hacendados,  were  crowding  before  His  Excellency's 
door  in  morbid  curiosity  over  the  prisoner's  fate. 
However,  there  was  another  door  opening  on  the  scene 
from  an  inner  room,  which  was  also  crowded:  but  this 
inner  room,  or  ante-sola,  was  dimly  lighted,  and  to  it 
I  made  my  way.  Here,  by  looking  over  the  heads  of 
those  in  front,  I  could  see  what  was  passing. 

Wrath  at  sight  of  the  languid  Gritton  had  brought 
Santa  Ana  to  his  feet,  and  he  was  champing  in  the 
beetle-browed  fury  that  one  connects  with  sullen  Roman 
emperors  who  are  roused.  A  table  overturned,  a 
champagne  bottle,  and  shards  of  glass  littered  the 
cement  floor  around  his  spurred  boots.  The  two  girls 
in  yellow  and  red  were  cowering  before  the  malevolent 
change  from  soft  debauchery  to  murderous  anger. 

271 


272 


THE  LONE  STAR 


But  Santa  Ana  looked  only  on  his  prey,  and  the  lust  in 
his  round  quickening  eyes  was  now  the  lust  of  wolfish 
hunger.  He  meant  to  rend  the  Englishman's  flesh,  to 
gloat  in  the  warmth  and  odour  of  steaming  blood. 
The  Englishman,  meantime,  stood  with  feet  apart,  and 
lazily  regarded  the  President  General-in-Chief  with  an 
appreciative  stare.  And  all  the  while,  off  in  the  patio, 
the  castanets  clicked  to  quick  time,  and  a  woman's 
voice  was  singing  the  words  to  the  jota,  clear  and  high, 
and  languorously  sensuous. 

"So,  senor,"  cried  the  President,  "so,  and  I  myself, 
the  Supreme  Power,  must  come  and  undo  your  work, 
eh?  And  did  you  imagine,  perhaps,  that  you  could 
betray  this  very  town  to  the  Americans,  to  the  land 
pirates,  and  yet  hide  your  perfidy  from  me,  your  master?" 

Gritton's  sandy  lashes  twitched  in  the  least,  and  he 
took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  Then,  as  an  afterthought,  he 
offered  the  box  to  the  President.  It  was  superb  and 
studied  insult;  that  is,  if  one  could  suspect  Gritton  of 
the  effort  required. 

"  Dios  mio,"  he  drawled,  in  the  tone  of  "re-ahly  now." 
Gritton  mispronounced  Spanish  as  flatly  as  he  did 
English  broadly,  but  the  irritating  effect  was  the  same. 
"Ah  si,  de  veras,  now  I  do  recall  knocking  down  various 
instances  of  Your  Excellency's  Houndsditch  warriors. 
They  smelled  badly,  you  know,  very.  And  in  addition, 
they  were  ambitious.  They  really  wished  to  carry  off 
a-ah — a  young  woman  under  my  protection.  But  no, 
I  cannot  imagine,"  he  simmered  affably,  "that  Your 
Excellency  should  confound  the  loss  of  a-ah — young 
woman — with  the  loss  of  the  town." 

The  illustrious  potentate,  a  head  shorter  than  his 
lank  tormentor,  broke  from  his  stern  pose,  and  raged 
up  and  down  the  room  like  a  baited  bull;  sword,  spurs, 
and  medals  all  jangling  menace.  He  halted  abruptly. 


BLISS  DEFERRED  273 

and  as  he  turned  on  Gritton,  his  hand  trembled  on  the 
hilt  of  his  sword  until  the  blade  rattled  in  its  scabbard. 

"Our  bargain,  senor,  our  bargain!"  he  snarled.  "Or 
must  I  call  Almonte  to  witness?  Or  the  fellow  Yandell, 
just  outside  there?" 

Gritton  pondered  gravely.  "No,"  he  replied,  "we 
are  a  crowd  now,  you  and  I." 

"Our  bargain,  senor.     Speak  to  the  bargain!" 

Gritton  calmly  threw  off  his  ulster,  and  sat  down. 
"Ah  yes,  the  bargain,"  he  said,  cumbrously  putting 
himself  to  the  effort  of  recollection.  "Yes,  when  I  am 
free  again,  it  will  give  me  more  pleasure  than  Your 
Excellency  can  suspect  to  deliver  according  to-ah — 
contract.  Divers  bleeding  noses — the  Houndsditch  war- 
riors, remember? — were  small  cost  to  pay  for  the  con- 
fidence of  these  Texan  Americans;  a  mere  bagatelle 
that  made  me  collector  of  the  port  at  Copano.  Con- 
sequently I  now  have,  ready  for  delivery,  all  the  Texan 
secrets.  I  counted  the  volunteers  who  landed  at 
Copano.  I  know  the  Texan  strength,  and  feeble  enough 
it  is,  but  why,  senor  ?  Why  are  they  now  helpless, 
defenceless?  Their  supply  ships  have  been  captured, 
but  why  ?  Also  there's  the  why  of  the  Matamoras  fever, 
and  it's-ah — inoculation.  Also  the  discord  among  the 
Texan  chiefs,  fondly  nurtured  to  fruition  by  Your 
Excellency's  very  obedient  servant.  Now  then,  dear 
and  dread  Napoleon  of  the  West,  foot  up  your  military 
genius  at  its  true  worth,  as,"  said  Gritton  dryly,  "I  do. 
Add  to  that  the  incidental  item  of  your  best  armies 
behind  you.  Then  place  the  grand  total  against  an 
Englishman's  wits,  and  tell  me  which  has  placed  you 
to-night  in  the  strongest  town  of  Texas.  Yes,  yes,  let 
us  speak  to  the  bargain,  Senor  Presidente,  for  I  feel 
myself  in  the  mood  to  require  the  pay  of  one  of  those 
armies." 


274  THE  LONE  STAR 

The  cynical  villainy  of  this  man  Gritton !  The  fiendishly 
subtle  game  he  had  played,  this  fox  arrayed  as  the  dense, 
lumbering  elephant !  Even  his  master,  himself  a  virtuoso 
in  cunning,  gazed  at  him  in  the  wonderment  that  sur- 
passing art  compels.  As  for  myself,  I  stared  agape. 
I  shuddered  to  recall  how  Gritton  had  warned  me  against 
the  very  machinations  in  which  he  had  then  marked  me 
down  for  a  tool.  And  now  here  he  was,  the  prisoner  of 
a  man  equally  unscrupulous,  yet  he  was  as  lazily  auda- 
cious as  ever,  and  even  a  little  more  patronising.  But 
he  was  much  too  shrewd  not  to  keep  the  whip  hand. 

"You  forget,  senor,"  haughtily  replied  Santa  Ana, 
"that  I  have  grown  accustomed  to  taking  strong  towns 
without  a  battle.  To  appear,  to  demand  their  surrender, 
that  is  enough.  And  as  for  your  pay,  amigo,  it  yet 
remains  to  determine  whether  that  shall  be  in  gold, 
or — in  lead.  To  begin,  will  you  explain  why  you  were 
coming  here  when  my  soldiers  took  you  in  charge?" 

"Which,"  said  Gritton,  "was  annoying,  very.  Now 
I  wonder  why  they — ah,  took  me  in  charge? " 

"Answer  my  question!  Why  were  you  coming  here? 
Was  it  to  protect  the  senorita  you  mention?  She  is 
here  then,  she " 

"Wait,"  said  Gritton.  "I  met  her  father  out  scout- 
ing yesterday,  and  I  told  him  that  she  had  gone  to 
Goliad." 

"But  has  she,  though?  Why  tell  him  that?" 

"Because  I  did  not  wish  him  to  come  here,  and  be 
captured  by  Your  Excellency." 

"Ai,  Dios,  and  you  dare  say  so,  you  who  know  how  I 
have  tried  to  catch  this  old  teller  of  bad  tales!  I  first  sent 
you,  Gritton,  to  take  him,  but  I  think  now  that  you 
saved  him." 

"Precisely,  but  when  I  undertook  that  mission  for 
you,  I  did  not  know  that  a- ah — an  overwhelming  girl 


BLISS  DEFERRED  275 

was  involved.  I  am,"  Gritton  went  on,  yawning 
wearily,  "prepared  to  deliver  Texas  into  Your  Excel- 
lency's hands,  but,"  and  here  a  note  of  scorn  tinged  his 
drawl,  and  put  his  cold-blooded  villainy  on  an  impersonal 
height  almost  akin  to  nobility,  "but  there  was  no  girl 
stated  in  the  bond,  and  I  hope  that  Your  Excellency  will 
not  imply  that  there  could  be.  I  should  not  like  to — ah 
— resent — the  insinuation.  It  would  be  so  fatiguing, 
and — it  would  lose  you  Texas." 

"Lose  me  Texas?"  cried  Santa  Ana.  "And  I  the 
head  of  a  nation  of  eight  millions,  and  they  without 
a  thousand  men  in  the  field  ?  Ai,  ai,  preserve  me, 
the  saints,  from  an  Englishman's  humour!  And  this 
other  prize  that  you  count  greater  than  Texas,  this 
senorita,  friend  Gritton?  Bien,  I  shall  not  need  you 
there.  More,  I  will  pay  you  back  your  jest,  for  I  even 
suggest  that  we  be  competitors  in  that  quarter.  But 
— but  you  do  not  appear  to  rise  to  the  honour,  Sefior 
Gritton." 

I  moved  nearer,  with  fists  clenched.  But  I  stepped 
on  a  woman's  toe,  who  snarled  at  me,  and  the  others  in 
the  crowded  ante-sola  grumbled  impatiently.  They  did 
not  wish  to  lose  a  word  of  the  shameless  argument.  Yet 
if  these  two  men,  one  all  powerful,  the  other  oblivious 
of  power,  could  know  that  a  helpless  fugitive  was  even 
then  presuming  to  count  himself  a  third  competitor. 
.  .  .  At  least  I  resolved  that,  until  I  fell  in  the 
defence  of  Texas,  I  would  strive  to  save  Nan  from  both 
one  and  the  other. 

"Ai,  Gritton,"  said  the  President,  throwing  himself 
back  on  the  couch,  and  growing  amiable  over  a  discourse 
so  much  to  his  crapulent  taste.  He  was  aware,  too,  of 
the  avid,  fawning  listeners  at  either  door.  "  Ai, 
Gritton,"  said  he,  "if  you  could  have  seen  the  mother! 
Dios,  then  you  would  not  wonder  at  my  interest  in  the 


376  THE  LONE  STAR 

daughter,  whom  I  have  never  seen.  But  the  little 
stfwora,  man!  She  was  exquisite.  And  fiery?  Ai,  mag- 
nified! But  it  was  all  bliss  deferred,  deferred  by  now  for 
twenty  years.  You  have  heard,  perhaps,  of  the  Battle 
on  the  Medina?" 

"The  occasion,  wasn't  it,"  Gritton  inquired  sleepily, 
"when  Your  Excellency  ran  into  some  of  the  fleeing 
Americans,  and  implored " 

"You  lie!"  cried  the  Napoleon  of  the  West.  "You lie, 
and  for  that " 

"Ah?"  said  Gritton,  faintly  sceptical.  "But  I 
merely  wished  to  decide  for  myself  from  the — ah — 
quality — of  Your  Excellency's  denial,  and — I  have." 

"You  lie,  I  say !  Or  they  were  lies  you  heard.  Instead, 
I  captured  those  fleeing  Americans;  I,  single-handed. 
But  wait.  My  people  here  shall  have  the  proof — Hold, 
you,  call  the  fellow  Yandell." 

Promptly  the  dragoons  hurried  in  the  slouching 
fellow  Yandell.  » 

"You  were  waiting  to  see  me?"  questioned  the 
President.  "  Was  it  about  the  Indians  I  sent  you  to  ? " 

"Si,  senor,"  Yandell  replied,  "but  they  wouldn't 
tomahawk  even  a  settler  baby — yet." 

' '  Why  not,  hombref    Why  not  ? " 

"Reason  enough,  senor.  Sam  Houston  has  been 
talking  to  them." 

The  President  General  scowled  at  the  name.  "No 
matter,"  he  said  hastily,  "we  will  try  them  again.  Now 
then,  tell  us.  You  were  at  the  Battle  on  the  Medina? " 

"Of  course,  senor.  That  was  when  Your  Excellency 
was  decorated  before  the  Spanish  army." 

"Never  mind  the  Spanish  army.  But  why  the 
decoration?" 

"You  headed  off  the  Americans.  You  captured  eight 
or  ten  of  them." 


BLISS  DEFERRED  277 

"Twenty,  Yandell,  twenty.  You  must  take  care, 
amigo,  to  remember  a  little  better.  Now,  in  whac  other 
way  was  I  rewarded?" 

"Your  Excellency  was  promoted." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  in  a  private  way?" 

Yandell  squinted  his  one  eye  painfully  in  his  anxiety 
for  a  good  memory. 

"If,"  he  ventured  doubtfully,  "if  Your  Excellency 
means  about  one  of  the  prisoners,  about  Old  Man 
Buckalew?" 

" Precisely  I  do.     And  what  then?" 

"They  turned  him  over  to  Your  Excellency." 

"Now  that  is  good,  Yandell,  very  good.  You  see,  my 
friends,"  the  great  man  went  on  to  explain,  "you  see, 
it  was  not  unusual  among  the  Spaniards,  this  little 
custom  of  giving  a  condemned  man  to  a  favourite  for 
exploitation.  And  why  not?  There's  often  a  handsome 
perquisite  in  a  pardon.  Altogether  we  had  taken  about 
seventy  Americans  on  the  Medina,  and  we  were  seating 
them  by  tens  on  a  log  across  a  big  grave,  and  shooting 
them.  The  first  batch  had  already  tumbled  in,  and  we 
were  lining  up  the  second  ten,  when  this  particular 
prisoner  of  mine,  this  Book-Bookalew,  whispered  the 
word  'ransom'  in  my  ear.  I  did  not  know  then  that  his 
senora  was  here  in  San  Antonio  in  an  interesting  con- 
dition. Still,  it  was  natural  enough,  without  any  such 
reason  as  a  helpless  senora,  for  a  man  to  balk  at  taking 
his  place  on  that  log." 

The  President-General  laughed  at  his  own  subtle 
humour,  and  Yandell's  guffaw  arose,  and  all  the  others 
except  Gritton  laughed  too,  though  a  little  tentatively. 
Gritton  peered  woodenly  from  one  to  another. 

"That  whispered  word,  'ransom,'"  continued  the 
amiable  President,  "is  a  seductive  one,  and  I  listened. 
The  man  said  he  had  a  pot  of  doubloons  hidden  away 


2;3  THE  LONE  STAR 

in  an  old  dry  well  on  his  rancho  in  the  Red  Lands,  and 
if — But  that  was  enough.  I  obtained  his  pardon  from 
the  Spanish  general  as  my  own  little  perquisite.  Book- 
alew  next  stipulated  that  I  must  send  him  and  his  lady 
safely  to  his  rancho,  and  then  he  would  send  back  the 
treasure  by  my  messenger.  I  had  to  trust  him,  and 
yet  he  kept  his  word.  Do  you  remember,  friend 
Yandell?" 

Friend  Yandell  made  a  wry  grimace.  Yes,  he 
remembered,  because  he  had  been  the  messenger. 

"But  Yandell,"  Santa  Ana  queried  pleasantly,  "you 
seem  to  have  a  bad  taste  from  that  adventure,  even  yet  ? " 

The  hairy  fellow's  grimace  blackened  to  a  scowl. 

"I  only  spoke  to  the  senora,"  he  began,  "and " 

"I  see,  and  hence  the  bad  taste.  Was  it  a  cowhiding, 
perhaps?  At  any  rate,  you  are  not  fond  of  this  Senor 
Bookalew,  eh?" 

"Senor,  if  once  I  could " 

"Could  find  him  at  Goliad,  for  example?  And  you 
shall,  Yandell,  you  shall.  You  are  to  start  there 
at  once.  You  will  fall  in  somewhere  with  my  brigade 
already  marching  against  the  place,  and  afrer  the 
battle  you  will  hunt  out  our  friend  Bookalew.  If 
he  is  still  alive  and  a  prisoner — But  you  understand. 
Now  go!" 

Yandell,  fawning  malignant  gratitude,  slouched  from 
the  room. 

"But  the  little  senoral"  urged  one  of  the  two  girls 
In  red  and  yellow.  Both  girls  were  reassured,  and  were 
again  lolling  on  the  couch  beside  the  Great  Man.  They 
catered  artfully  to  his  vanity. 

"We  want  to  know  about  the  little  senora,"  pouted 
the  second  nymph. 

The  throng  in  the  doorway  saw  that  the  cue  was  a 
good  one,  and  they  also  besought  him  plaintively. 


BLISS  DEFERRED  279 

The  illustrious  Sybarite  retniniscently  touched  his  tongue 
to  his  lips. 

"Well,  well,"  he  agreed.  " But  you  must  first  picture 
to  yourselves  that  I  have  brought  my  prisoner,  Bookalew, 
from  the  battlefield  on  the  Medina,  here  to  San  Antonio. 
The  victorious  Spaniards  were  dragging  the  townspeople 
to  the  jails,  and  at  every  turn  in  the  crooked  streets  we 
had  to  avoid  a  fusillade.  Officers  and  men  were  carrying 
off  prizes — prizes  feminine,  and  I  half  suspect" — here 
the  President  glanced  around  for  appreciation — "I  half 
suspect  that  this  put  me  in  the  same  mood  myself. 
Judge  then,  amigos,  of  my  emotions  when  I  followed  the 
anxious  husband  to  his  house  and  straight  to  the  room 
of  his  senora,  and  there  beheld  her,  exquisite,  magnifico 
— ai!  She  was  asleep,  and  her  head  on  the  pillow  was 
bowered  round  by  dark  tresses,  and  her  neck,  where  the 
sun  had  not  touched  it,  was  of  the  purity  and  whiteness 
of  marble.  Who,  amigos,  might  withhold  a  cry  of 
pleasure?  And  then  she  opened  her  eyes,  eyes  big  and 
lustrous,  and  with  that  misty  beauty  of  a  woman  just 
coming  out  of  sleep.  The  man,  Bookalew,  turned  on 
me,  only  just  realising  that  I  had  penetrated  to  the 
sanctuary  of  his  goddess.  But  I  stooped  under  his  fists, 
passed  him,  and  reached  her  pillow.  I  was  determined 
that — well,  that  here  should  be  my  prisoner's  ransom. 
And  her  lips — ai,  they  were  red,  and  ripe  for  picking. 
My  face  was  immediately  so  close  over  her  own  that  she 
must  have  thought  at  first,  in  her  sleepy  state,  that  I 
was  that  husband  of  hers,  and  she  pursed  her  lips.  But 
— I  have  said  it  was  bliss  deferred.  Instantly  she  knew, 
and  a  beautiful  tigress  rage  darted  like  shafts  of  fire  in 
her  widening  black  eyes,  and  her  nails,  the  nails  of  her 
ivory  finger  tips,  were  brought  down  my  two  cheeks. 
That  delicious  rage,  that  beautiful  face,  I  shall  never 
forget!"  He  glanced  around  for  sympathy,  but  another 


28o  THE  LONE  STAR 

thing,  terror,  awaited  him.  "Look,  look,"  he  babbled 
hoarsely,  "look,  I  see  her  now!" 

He  staggered  to  his  feet,  gazing  fixedly  at  the  patio 
door.  For  a  moment  only  a  face  had  peered  into  the 
room,  and  had  flitted  away  again.  It  was  a  face  hooded 
in  a  black  lace  mantilla,  a  face  of  wide-searching  black 
eyes,  of  tanned  cheeks  with  roses  in  them.  But  despite 
the  President's  superstitious  fright,  there  was  yet  the  note 
of  quickening  greed  in  his  cry,  of  greed  on  the  scent  for 
twenty  years. 

"  Ha,  bring  her  in,  catch  her!"  he  panted. 

And  when  they  brought  her,  he  perceived  that  she  was 
really  of  flesh  and  blood. 

"Ai,  'tis  one  I  have  not  seen  yet,"  he  exclaimed. 
"To  think  there's  such  a  jewel  to  dazzle  a  backwoods 
fandango!  But  permit  me,  reina  mia,  here's  a  touch 
of  wine  to  bring  back  the  red  in  those  lips.  Those  lips — 
a*,  there's  a  better  way ! " 

The  girl  leaped  back  as  from  a  snake,  a  look  of  ab- 
horrence— prenatal  abhorrence,  I  firmly  believe — in 
her  eyes.  Her  two  hands,  with  fingers  crooked,  darted 
out  from  under  her  mantilla.  "Ugh!"  she  breathed, 
and  her  nails  tore  through  the  flesh  of  his  cheeks. 

The  President  of  Mexico,  his  yellow  face  streaming 
blood,  glared  dazedly  at  the  trembling  girl. 

"The  saints,"  he  cried,  "tis  the  little  senora/"  And 
again  he  sprang  for  her. 

Bliss  deferred!  Two  men  caught  him  by  the  arms. 
One  of  the  men  was  Gritton.  The  other  was — myself. 
Ah,  how  I  shall  forever  thank  our  good  Lord  that  for 
once  I  did  not  stop  to  think,  but  that  I  was  there,  there 
between  this  yellow  toad  and  sweet  Nan  Buckalew, 
that  I  was  there  and  knew  it  not  until  he  turned  on  me 
and  I  saw  the  murderous  gleam  in  his  eyes!  Gritton 
was  equally  astounded  at  my  appearance,  I  think,  and 


BLISS  DEFERRED  281 

almost  as  little  pleased  as  Santa  Ana  himself.  After 
all,  we  were  even  in  the  race,  Gritton  and  I,  as  to  coming 
to  Nan  in  San  Antonio.  But  why  in  the  world  had 
Nan  braved  a  place  like  this  fandango  ?  She  was  look- 
ing for  someone,  that  was  certain.  She  had  seen  Grit- 
ton  brought  past  her  door  a  prisoner,  and  then  in  here. 
And  she  had  come  impulsively  into  this  peril  to — No, 
the  idea  was  too  repellent.  Nan  could  never  think  that 
much  of  the  Englishman.  No  girl  could,  and  Nan — 
No,  no,  I  would  not  believe  it. 

The  room  filled  at  once.  It  was  not  a  usual  thing 
for  the  President  General-in-Chief  of  Mexico  to  be 
assaulted  in  the  midst  of  his  armies.  The  rabble  buzzed, 
squirmed,  muttered  indignation.  Gritton  and  I  were 
instantly  overpowered.  If  we  were  not  also  struck  down, 
that  was  only  because  the  President  General  himself  bit 
the  snarling  command  half-way  between  his  teeth. 

"So,"  he  laughed,  rubbing  his  hands  unctuously, 
"we  are  three,  eh?  Three  competitors;  eh,  Senor 
Reeply?" 

He  dabbed  a  handkerchief  to  the  long  livid  streaks 
down  his  face,  and  his  round  eyes  dulled  to  cold  expres- 
sionless greed.  He  cleared  the  room  of  all  except  our- 
selves and  the  four  dragoons  holding  Gritton  and  me. 
He  wished  that  we  should  see,  Gritton  and  I,  and  he  again 
moved  toward  Nan,  wetting  his  lips.  He  was  wary  now 
of  her  nails,  but  his  experience  of  Nan  should  have  taught 
him  more.  As  she  saw  him  coming,  she  shrank  back, 
and  one  hand  pressed  her  bosom.  The  prenatal 
loathing  drew  her  features  stark  and  rigid  and  waxy 
white,  and  this  was  still  her  expression  as  her  hand 
flashed  from  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  levelled  on  him 
the  little  pistol  she  always  carried.  She  did  not  speak. 
I  don't  believe  that  she  could.  And  she  did  not  move, 
except  for  a  nervous  twitching  of  her  ringer  on  the 


28a  THE  LONE  STAR 

trigger.  Santa  Ana  halted,  and  the  cringing  cur  showed 
in  his  eyes.  It  was  Gritton  who  released  the  spring  of 
tension,  for  he  half  laughed. 

"Ah,"  he  drawled,  "I  wonder  what  Your  Excellency 
is  going  to  do  now?"  ' 

The  question  was  a  hard  one.  Even  I,  despite  the 
tension,  was  filled  with  glee.  Deathly  fear  and  baffled 
rage  swept  by  turns  across  the  President's  face.  He 
could  order  her  shot  down,  and  thus  rendered  harmless. 
But  he  looked  at  her,  and  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  the  sacrifice.  He  would  try  for  the  prize  another 
time. 

"Bien,  bien,"  he  said,  and  this  elastic  genius  rubbed 
his  hands  and  bowed  himself  from  her  as  before  a  queen. 
"Dios,  she  is  more  than  magnificent!  She  is  superb, 
superb!  So  much  so,"  he  added,  his  voice  suddenly 
become  harsh  and  deadly,  "so  much  so  that  I  cannot 
endure  the  thought  of — competitors." 

The  toad  had  found  a  way  to  vent  its  poisonous 
chagrin.  He  gave  a  sharp  command  to  the  dragoons 
who  held  me,  and  nodded  toward  the  door.  They 
gripped  my  arms  and  were  bearing  me  out,  when  Nan, 
saying  never  a  word,  and  her  face  more  drawn  and 
stark,  advanced  a  step  and  pressed  the  muzzle  of  her 
pistol  squarely  against  His  Excellency's  temple.  Amazed 
as  I  was,  I  yet  noted  a  quiver  of  scorn  that  curled  her 
lips.  She  had  pierced  once  already  to  the  craven 
beneath  the  conqueror's  vainglorious  shell,  and  now 
she  was  sure  of  her  ground. 

The  President  gasped  out  an  order  to  loose  me,  and 
at  once  I  was  free.  Only  then,  but  with  the  pistol  ever 
ready,  did  Nan  step  back.  And  then,  in  the  reaction, 
her  lips  began  to  tremble,  and  after  a  little  she  spoke. 

"I  came,"  she  said,  "when  I  saw  them  bring  Mr. 
Gritton  here." 


BLISS  DEFERRED  283 

And  so  that  was  her  reason,  after  all  I  But  she  con- 
tinued: 

"I  thought  Mr.  Gritton  was  the  only  one  in  this  place 
who  might  recognise  him — Harry,  I  mean.  Harry  had 
taken  refuge  here  just  a  little  before — and  I  didn't 
know  but  that  Mr.  Gritton  would  betray  him,  and  so 
I  came  to — to  give  him  warning  and — and  save  him. 
I  didn't  know  just  how  I  could,  but — but  some  way. 
Still,  I  don't  see  any  way,  even  yet.  But  you,  senor," 
and  she  turned  on  Santa  Ana,  "you,  the  colonel  here, 
or  general,  or  whatever  you  are,  you  shall  tell  me. 
How?  Tell  me  quickly,  how?" 

My  own  ineffable  rapture  in  this  confession  need  not  be 
described,  and  Gritton 's  feelings  cannot  be,  because 
I  am  not  informed.  I  only  know  that  his  hand  jerked 
on  his  moustache,  and  that  his  sleepy  eyes  opened 
wider  than  ever  before  as  he  looked  oddly  at  Nan  and 
then  at  me.  As  for  Santa  Ana,  he  was  again  the  pliant 
genius.  The  man  was  hindered  by  no  more  rigidity, 
either  of  scruple  or  shame,  than  a  rubber  band,  but  a 
rigid  rubber  band,  you  know,  could  hardly  be  effective. 
He  put  his  hand  over  his  heart.  "With  pleasure  I  will, 
senor ita,"  he  said,  and  bowed  with  winning  courtesy. 
You  would  have  thought  that  she  had  asked  him  for  her 
fan. 

"It  seems,  eh  Gritton,"  he  went  on,  more  and  more 
suavely,  "that  one  must  not  name  the  triumphant 
competitor  before  the  lady  herself  has  spoken.  Now 
then,  Senor  Reeply,  you  are  to  be  saved.  That  is 
decreed  already.  I  but  echo  our  queen's  command. 
But  you  yourself  must  choose  where  you  wish  to  go, 
and  my  men  shall  escort  you  there.  Word  of  a  Mexican 
caballero,  they  shall." 

His  word  of  honour  had  little  weight  with  me,  yet  I 
believed  that  he  would  grant  my  request,  since  it 


2g4  THE  LONE  STAR 

virtually  meant  the  same  as  death.  But  the  word  came 
hard. 

"Where,  senor?"  he  repeated.  "Where  shall  they 
take  you?" 

"To  the — Alamo,"  I  said. 

He  bowed  and  smiled,  as  though  he  were  offering  me 
a  cigarette.  Nan,  I  know,  started  to  protest  against 
my  choice.  But  she  stifled  the  words.  She  would 
not  have  me  fail  in  this. 

"I  await,  senorita"  said  the  President,  "your  further 
commands." 

"I  was  about  to  ask  Mr.  Gritton,"  Nan  replied,  "to 
escort  me  back  to  the  house  of  friends  where  I  am  now 
living." 

"Granted,  senorita" 

"But  if  we  are  followed " 

"My  word  of  a  gentleman,  you  will  not  be  followed." 

Whether  or  not,  either  she  or  Gritton  might  be  trusted 
to  outwit  his  shadowing  spies.  "We  shall  need  a  pass 
through  the  lines  for  three,"  she  said.  I  guessed  by 
that  that  she  meant  to  leave  the  town,  and  that  the  third 
she  had  in  mind  was  the  wife  of  Deaf  Smith.  His 
Excellency  wrote  out  the  pass. 

"What  more?"  he  asked. 

Nan  did  not  hear.  She  had  all  she  wanted.  But  her 
eyes  were  ever  alert,  and  the  pistol  ready.  Draping  the 
mantilla  about  her  head,  she  turned  to  me  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

"You  have  told  me  good-bye  once  already  to-night, 
Harry,"  she  murmured  swiftly.  "Imagine  then  that 
— that  I  have  returned  it." 

The  glorious  girl,  she  must  mean,  she  did  mean — my 
kiss!  Of  course,  for  as  she  passed  out  with  Gritton,  she 
looked  back,  and  I  saw  that  the  lashes  of  her  tender 
eyes  were  wet  with  tears. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

JOLLY  COLONEL  MALAPROP 

FOR  that  night  they  took  me  to  the  barracks  in  the 
Plaza,  which  we  had  won  so  hardily  only  three 
months  before.  Despite  the  harrowing  hours  just 
passed,  I  slept  on  the  cold  stones  as  one  dead,  until 
the  deep  boom  of  a  cannon  roused  me  back  to  life.  An 
awed  whisper  came  through  the  dark.  "El  Alamo!" 
To  be  sure,  it  was  the  sun-up  gun  at  the  Alamo.  The 
awakening  garrison  around  me  talked  of  that  other 
garrison,  cooped  up  in  the  old  mission  across  the  river, 
of  Bowie,  of  Travis,  of  the  Americanos,  as  of  supernatural 
fighters.  The  Mexican  soldiers  might  have  been  children 
in  an  ecstasy  of  dread,  murmuring  tales  of  ogres  and 
bugaboo  prowess.  The  sun-up  gun  was  immediately 
the  signal  for  that  day's  hellishness,  and  batteries  roared, 
and  musket  volleys  filled  the  lapses  between  the 
thunderous  blasts. 

Into  this  unholy  din  I  was  marched,  through  the  nar- 
row streets,  and  out  beyond  the  town.  More  or  less  we 
went  by  the  way  that  Milam  had  led  us  in,  and  I  gazed 
at  the  scarred  walls  where  we  had  fought  inch  by  inch. 
But  my  guard  of  some  fifteen  lancers  suspected  reflec- 
tions unfavourable  to  their  race,  and  gruffly  bade  me  to 
have  the  goodness  to  walk  a  little  faster.  I  was,  by  the 
way,  the  only  one  on  foot.  When  we  had  gained  the 
open  prairie,  instead  of  making  a  detour  toward  the 
Alamo,  the  lancers  swerved  southward. 

"Where's  your  flag  of  truce?"  I  asked. 

285 


286  THE  LONE  STAR 

"None  is  needed,  sertor,"  replied  the  subteniente  in 
command. 

"But  how  will  you  deliver  me  to  my  friends  in  the 
Aamo?" 

"Our  orders,  seftor,  have  no  reference  to  the  Alamo. 
We  go  to  join  the  brigade  that  attacks  Goliad,  and 
you,  senor,  you  go  with  us  to  identify  a  proscribed  rebel. 
His  name  is  Buckalew." 

I  halted  in  my  tracks,  whereupon  a  scabrous  guard 
leaned  over  his  saddle,  and  brought  his  lance  across 
my  shoulders.  My  hands,  I  should  mention,  were  tied 
behind  me,  and  I  obeyed  the  injunction,  reflecting 
however  on  the  dreary  march  afoot  for  a  hundred  miles 
or  more.  Hour  after  hour,  until  the  sun  behind  the 
leaden  clouds  was  almost  overhead,  I  trudged  through 
the  shifting  slush  of  alkali  dust.  The  chill  barb  of  the 
north  wind  lashed  my  back,  my  particular  friend  among 
the  lancers  having  taken  my  cloak.  An  icy  mist  trickled 
steadily  by  drops  off  my  old  slouch  hat  and  down  my 
neck,  and  I  was  wet  to  the  skin.  I  had  had  nothing 
to  eat,  and  I  was  hungry  and  thirsty  and  faint.  We 
passed  a  long  bedraggled  column.  They  were  seasoned 
veterans  of  Mexico's  perennial  civil  wars;  and  with 
them  were  their  carts,  their  pack-mules,  and  their 
soldaderas,  the  women  camp-followers;  all  pushing  on 
to  San  Antonio.  They  jeered  to  find  an  American 
taken  prisoner.  A  foot  soldier  darted  from  the  ranks 
and  prodded  me  with  his  bayonet,  while  the  others 
laughed  like  monkeys,  though  there  was  one  of  the 
women  who  murmured  "Pobrecito!"  Then  an  Indito 
cavalryman  from  Yucatan  tripped  me  with  his  sword. 
"  We'll  soon  have  the  rest  of  you,"  they  cried.  "Si,  si, 
and  we  hear  there's  not  two  hundred  in  the  Alamo. 
Valgame  Dios,  that's  the  question  of  a  day!"  And 
so  the  column  passed  us. 


JOLLY  COLONEL  MALAPROP      287 

My  first  high  anger  dulled  to  callous  resignation. 
In  a  benumbed  way,  I  marvelled  at  the  change  coming 
over  me.  It  was  apathy,  but  the  apathy  of  sullen 
hatred.  Whitest  linen  on  the  edge  of  a  gutter  will  sop 
up  the  ooze  until  it  is  a  rag.  A  foul  poison  was  seeping 
through  the  warp  and  woof  of  my  being,  just  like  that, 
and  my  soul  was  like  the  rag.  As  to  the  possibility  of 
antidote,  of  cleansing,  I  despaired  entirely.  Each  time 
the  lance  of  the  scabrous  guard  fell  across  my  shoulders, 
which  was  often,  the  dull  craving  for  murder  grew 
heavier  yet.  Who  the  victim  might  be  no  longer  mat- 
tered. To  kill,  to  kill,  as  the  crazed  starving  man 
thinks  on  no  particular  flesh,  only  to  kill,  to  gorge,  that 
was  all  in  all.  Yet  as  I  trudged  on  and  on  so  wearily, 
I  might  have  been  the  driven  slave,  and  dead  to  all 
emotion.  I  was  a  sodden  thing,  but  venom  had  made 
me  so. 

And  now  I  shall  tell  of  the  antidote;  for  there  was  one, 
after  all.  The  antidote  was  a  pair  of  rollicking  Irish 
eyes;  also  a  weather-worn  face  beaming  with  fun,  and 
beaming,  too,  because  of  the  gentlest  and  the  stoutest  of 
hearts  within.  The  antidote  began  with  a  rifle  shot, 
a  rifle  shot  when  no  one  but  ourselves  could  be  seen  over 
all  the  bleak  expanse  of  prairie.  The  shot  was  of  itself 
clean  cut  and  cleansing,  for  the  subteniente  lurched  a 
dead  weight  from  his  horse.  The  others  staggered  to  a 
halt,  and  gazed  around  on  every  side.  But  there  was 
not  even  a  scrub  oak  within  range  to  cover  an  ambush. 
There  was  nothing  but  the  dirty  yellowish  mesquite 
grass,  nothing  except  a  gauzy  trace  of  smoke  drifting 
lazily  away.  The  lancers  fired  wildly;  and  then,  being 
unloaded,  began  to  realise  that  they  numbered  only 
fifteen,  and  that  there  must  be  an  Indian  or  an  American 
prowling  on  their  trail.  They  were  in  half  a  mind  to 
run  already,  and  when  a  second  bullet  from  quite  a 


288  THE  LONE  STAR 

different  quarter  neatly  cleansed  another  saddle,  they 
waited  no  longer.  Curiosity  as  to  who  might  be  next 
held  too  much  of  tragedy,  and  off  they  scattered 
pell-mell. 

My  own  particular  and  scabrous  friend  lunged  at  me 
for  remembrance  as  he  swung  his  horse  about,  but  the 
terrified  animal  jumped  and  doubled  like  a  jackknife 
at  the  sudden  thrust,  and  tumbled  his  rider  into  the 
grass.  Then  the  dull  hatred  that  was  in  me  leaped  to 
flame.  My  arms  were  bound,  but  I  sprang  and  came 
down  upon  the  lancer's  head  with  both  my  heels.  I 
struck  him  glancmgly,  and  lost  my  balance  and  fell. 
I  worked  myself  to  my  knees,  to  my  feet,  but  he  was  up 
almost  as  quick,  and  at  me  he  came,  cursing  madly, 
and  flourishing  that  eternal  lance  of  his.  It  was  hard 
running  without  the  use  of  hands  or  arms,  and  I  shudder 
yet  with  wondering  why  I  did  not  stumble  headlong  in 
that  boggy  road.  The  lancer  and  his  lance  were  gain- 
ing, and  I  thought  of  the  marksman,  or  marksmen,  in 
the  grass,  and  thought  that  now  would  be  a  good  time 
for  another  shot.  Yet  if  the  third  shot  took  me  instead 
of  the  lancer — But  there,  had  I  known  who  was  in  the 
grass,  I'd  have  had  more  confidence. 

As  I  ran,  with  the  lancer's  hard  breathing  almost  in 
my  ears,  I  thought  I  saw  a  wiggling  in  the  grass  near 
the  roadside.  Then  a  head  arose,  of  a  white  man  in 
fox-skin  cap  with  bushy  tail  hanging  behind.  He 
crouched  to  spring  as  I  passed  him.  An  instant  later 
I  heard  a  heavily  falling  body  behind  me,  and  there  was 
my  Mexican,  and  the  stranger  atop  of  him. 

I  noted  first  the  contrast  of  fox-skin  cap  with  a  dandy- 
ish rubber  hunting  coat,  and  I  inferred  with  a  pang  that 
the  stranger  must  be  some  tender  adventurer  out  of 
the  East.  And  yet  his  gesture  looked  especially  com- 
petent. The  gesture  was  not  one  that  you  buy  with 


JOLLY  COLONEL  MALAPROP     289 

rubber  coats,  but  of  a  man  who  has  used  steel  close  in 
against  many  a  bear.  There  were  the  gnarled  fingers, 
the  muscled  grip  on  the  upraised  knife,  and  as  I  say,  it 
was  all  perfectly  competent.  The  stranger  looked  up  as 
I  hastened  to  him,  and  then  I  saw  the  rollicking  Irish 
eyes. 

"Don't,"  I  cried.     "Don't!" 

The  antidote  had  acted,  you  observe. 

"Not  even  scotch  him  a  leetle?"  queried  the  man; 
not,  though,  in  the  brogue  of  Ireland,  yet  in  a  backwoods 
dialect  as  rich  and  deep.  "Now,  my  ears  fur — for — a 
heel  tap,  I  warn't  reckonin'  that  you  would  so  specify." 

His  voice,  lusty  as  of  forest  depths,  wound  up  roundly 
on  the  pompous  intonation  of  an  oratorical  period.  It 
was  very  quaint,  this  grave  halting  for  the  imposing 
phrase  and  precise  enunciation.  Swirling  in  the  natural, 
wild,  and  laughing  torrent  of  words,  it  contrasted  as 
oddly  as  the  India-rubber  coat  with  the  man's  heavily 
fringed  buckskin.  In  speech,  in  dress,  in  manner,  here 
was  a  whimsical  Colonel  Malaprop  indeed. 

"More'nover,"  he  added,  "it  air  sartin  a  notch 
bey  ant  my  measure  to  jus'  slap-dash  right  in  and  work 
the  nullification  of  a  helpless  critter,  though  this  un  did 
mos'  raise  my  ol'  dander.  But  he  a'n't — ain't — no 
b'ar,  nuther,  even  if  he  do  be  a  varmint,  so " 

So,  with  the  merry  quips  still  tumbling  from  his 
tongue's  end,  my  Colonel  Malaprop  rose  from  the  Mexi- 
can's chest,  and  ordered  him  to  his  feet. 

"But  I  want  my  cloak,"  I  said. 

"Your  cloak?"  Colonel  Malaprop  snatched  it  free. 
"Yes,  an'  this  jab-pole  too,  fur  a  soov'nur,"  and  the 
lance  was  thrown  at  my  feet.  "Thar  now,"  said 
my  efficient  rescuer  to  the  Mexican,  "thar  now,  you 
ricketty  steamboat,  bust  yo'  bilers  away  frum  here 
—git!" 


29o  THE  LONE  STAR 

The  Mexican's  jaw  hung  loose.  He  could  not  under- 
stand, for  in  his  own  code  mercy  was  military  heresy. 
He  required  a  direful  sweep  of  Colonel  Malaprop's  knife 
to  frighten  him  to  his  heels. 

"Now  then,  seeny or, "laughed  the  stranger,  when  the 
ricketty  steamboat  was  fairly  under  way  across  the 
prairie,  "and  what  may  yo'  object  be  in  travellin'  roun' 
with  yo'  hands  tied  in  any  sich  fashion?  Thar,"  and 
he  cut  my  bonds  and  threw  my  cloak  about  me,  "let's 
build  up  a  leetlefire  in'erds."  With  which  he  sheathed 
his  knife,  and  drew  a  flask  of  whiskey  from  a  coonskin 
bag  hanging  over  his  shoulder. 

I  drank  eagerly,  but  stared  the  while  at  this  lone  man 
who  had  arisen  out  of  the  mesquite  grass  where  all  the 
world  was  desert,  and  had  scattered  fifteen  armed  troopers 
like  so  many  rabbits.  Yes,  he  was  alone,  but  by  squirm- 
ing along  the  ground  while  reloading,  he  had  seemed  to 
people  the  grass  with  a  host  of  riflemen.  He  looked 
the  shiftless,  jovial  vagabond,  and  lovable  he  certainly 
was,  for  I  loved  him  at  once.  Guileless  easy  nature  and 
shrewd  humour  wreathed  his  angular  features  in  bub- 
bling mirth,  and  yet  behind  it  all  one  sensed  a  customer 
that  might  be  exceedingly  dangerous  to  handle.  His 
glossy  black  hair  waved  to  his  collar,  almost  hiding  his 
ears,  and  except  for  sideburns  and  a  recent  growth  of 
stubble,  he  was  clean  shaven.  He  must  have  been 
fifty,  yet  he  stood  as  straight  as  a  young  Indian,  with  all 
the  Indian's  free  bearing  in  the  wilderness.  A  some- 
thing unfamiliar  told  me  he  could  not  be  of  the 
plains,  and  yet  the  distinction  was  intangible.  But 
his  way  of  walking  was  one  token.  He  had  the  tread 
of  a  cat,  which  betrayed  by  no  snapping  twig;  a  tread 
that  was  caution,  that  was  every  nerve  alert  against 
each  thicket  and  bush  of  an  impenetrable  forest.  Yes, 
his  was  the  manner  of  woodcraft.  He  had  nothing 


JOLLY  COLONEL  MALAPROP      291 

of  the  bold  stride,  or  bowlegged  stride,  of  horsemen 
and  plainsmen  like  ourselves. 

I  gazed  slyly  at  his  face,  a  spare,  toughened  face 
beaming  with  the  care-free  heart  of  youth.  There 
was  an  almost  sweet  winsomeness  there,  and  soft  clear 
eyes  under  rumpled  brows,  a  quizzical  mouth,  a  long 
sharp  nose,  and  sharply  moulded  chin,  all  of  which 
would  be  striking  anywhere.  But  apart  from  all  this 
I  had  seen  the  face  before.  He  noted  my  perplexity, 
and  the  slightly  bored  pleasure,  not  without  a  quaint 
touch  of  vanity  in  having  people  gape  at  him,  quickened 
the  laughter  in  his  eyes. 

"Eh  now,  seenyor,"  he  demanded  with  charming  self- 
assurance,  "and  don't  you  know  who  I  be?" 

"Yes,  yes."  I  exclaimed,  the  old  hero  worship 
tingling  in  my  voice,  "You  made  a  trip  East " 

"Whar — where  they  reckoned  I  was  'most  as  great  a 
sight  as  a  Punch  and  Judy  show.  But  they're  prime 
folks,  them  Yankees,  even  if  the  men  thar  do  milk  the 
cows,  and  they  kin  decipher  out  a  gentleman  without  a 
spyglass." 

"And  I  saw  you  on  the  Mall,  and  we  got  you  up  to 
Harvard  for  a  speech." 

"And  right  good  boys  they  war  too.  Cheered  me 
like  I  was  another  Laffyit  come  a-visitin'.  But,"  he 
added  regretfully,  "I  'spose  you  went  and  got  some 
initials  hammered  onto  yo'  name,  wrong  end  hindmos', 
eh?  I  mean,"  he  explained,  "a  degree  of  tomfoolery, 
or  something." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  believe  now  I  did,  but  I'd  almost 
forgotten." 

He  looked  relieved.  "Yes,  no  doubt,  no  doubt,  I 
jedge  that  initials  and  sich  do  sluff  off  down  here.  Thar's 
nothin'  in  univarsal  natur'  so  well  calculated  as  the  open 
new  country  to  make  every  skin  hang  by  its  own  tail. 


292  THE  LONE  STAR 

But  now,"  he  went  on,  glad  for  a  chance  to  talk,  yet 
with  a  weather  eye  ever  on  the  bleak  flats,  "now  you 
take  Emp'ror  Andy  Jackson,  who's  the  Government 
and  Univarse  rolled  into  one,  and  still  noways  satisfied, 
he  has  to  be  an  LL.D. — Doctor  Jackson? — Now  I  wisht 
I  may  be  shot  if  he  ever  got  to  'jurisprudence'  in  his 
speller  any  more'n  me.  And  what  with  his  stampedin' 
the  pore  fugitive  deposits  frum  bank  to  bank — Thar, 
thar,  I  come  to  Texas  to  keep  my  temper,  so  jus'  let's 
take  anuther  ideer  out  o'  Black  Betty — I'm  as  dry  as  a 
powderhorn  inside — and  then  we'll  go  and  find  t'other 
Betsy,  who's  my  own  darlin'.  She's  restin'  up  roun' 
in  the  grass  som'eres." 

He  chuckled  gustily  at  my  bewilderment.  But  I 
understood  when  he  nosed  around  off  the  trail  and 
picked  up  his  rifle.  The  piece  was  quite  a  long  one, 
of  exquisite  finish  and  workmanship. 

"Fabricated  fur — for  me  special,"  he  said,  caressing 
it  fondly,  "and  they  give  her  to  me  in  Phil'delphy  fur 
bein'  honest.  See  this  inscription?" 

The  name  engraven  there  was  "Colonel  David  Crock- 
ett." What  a  happy  faculty  did  our  Texas  have  for 
drawing  big  men,  and — making  them  bigger!  And  here 
in  the  flesh  was  the  hunter  hero,  the  bear  killer,  the 
Redskin  slayer,  of  my  childhood  dreams!  Here  was 
the  illiterate  Tennessee  backwoodsman  who  lived  forty 
miles  from  the  first  settlement,  yet  ran  for  the  legisla- 
ture, and — was  elected.  Who  could  refuse  to  vote  for 
a  man  so  merry  and  so  downright  sincere  ?  At  least  the 
backwoods  could  not.  And  more,  they  sent  "the 
gentleman  from  the  cane"  to  Congress,  where  he  was 
hailed  gleefully  from  Capitol  Hill  to  the  White  House, 
and  again  later  when  he  toured  the  North  and  became 
"a  univarsal  pet." 

"Si  seenyor,"    he   said — He   appeared    to    think    it 


JOLLY  COLONEL  MALAPROP     293 

necessary,  being  in  Texas,  to  let  Spanish  words  sift  into 
his  vocabulary,  so  as  to  give  one  a  neighbourly  footing — 
"Si  seenyor,  Davy  Crockett  frum  the  backwoods,  half- 
hawse,  half-alligator,  and  steamboat,  with  a  dash  o' 
snappin'  turtle,  who  kin  wade  the  Miz'ippi,  leap  the 
Ohio,  ride  a  streak  o'  lightnin,'  and  slide  down  a  honey 
locust  without  scratchin'  his  laigs.  Want  to  see  him 
lick  his  weight  in  wildcats?  Or  swaller  raw  any  penny- 
whistle  pol'tician  o'  the  Jackson  school?  Leastwise," 
he  added  with  a  gorgeous  wink,  "them  Yankees  took 
me  fur  jus'  sich  a  curiosity.  But  they  give  me  Betsy, 
same  as  this  coat,  and  knife,  and  tomahawk,  and  this 
here  watch  seal.  Look  at  them  two  hawses  on  the  seal, 
streakin'  it  like  all  wrath,  and  then  the  words,  'Go  ahead! ' 
That's  my  motty.  But,"  he  said,  half  humorously,  and 
a  little  remorsefully  too,  "I've  done  disapp'inted  my 
country,  'cause  I've  give  up  all  notion  o'  runnin'  fur 
President  agin  the  Non-Committal  Little  Flying  Dutch- 
man. Si  seenyor,  it  air  true,"  as  if  I  were  amazed  and 
sceptical,  "ever  sence  I  champeened  the  deposits  and 
they  rascalled  me  out  o'  my  election.  Then  I  jus'  up 
and  told  my  constitchents  they  could  go  to  hell,  and 
I'd  come  to  Texas,  till  honest  men  got  on  top  the  heap 
ag'in.  So  here  I  be,  jus'  Colonel  Crockett  o'  Tenn'see, 
and  ready  to  give  you-all  a  helpin'  hand  on  the  high 
road  to  freedom.  Always  war  hankerin'  to  have  a 
spoon  in  some  sich  a  mess,  anyhow.  I  reckon  now  that 
you  ought  be  one  o'  the  revolutioners,  seenyor?" 

I  briefly  gave  him  an  inkling  of  my  dreary  case,  adding 
that  I  must  get  into  the  Alamo. 

He  shook  his  head  darkly.  "Best  not  to  try,"  he 
said,  "The  boys  in  thar  a'n't  likely  to  take  oncommon 
civil  to  one  o'  you  Councilist  folks.  As  fur  them  orders 
you  got,  jus'  give  'em  to  me." 

"To  you?" 


294  THE  LONE  STAR 

He  explained  that  he  'lowed  to  win  his  way  into  the 
Alamo.  He  had  arrived  in  San  Antonio  only  a  few  weeks 
before,  and  there  being  no  Mexicans  or  other  "living 
subject"  on  which  to  try  his  Betsy,  he  had  taken  to  the 
flats  to  amuse  himself  until  the  enemy  appeared.  But 
"b'ar  wa'n't  very  plenty  noways,"  and  he  was  now 
returning  to  the  town,  though  only  to  hear  that  Santa 
Ana  had  marched  in  meantime.  However,  my  jolly 
Colonel  Malaprop  was  all  "feverish  to  take  a  blizzard 
at  the  ol'  sarpint  himself,"  by  whom  he  meant  the 
President  General. 

"Then,"  I  said,  "we'll  try  to  get  in  together." 

He  clapped  me  on  the  shoulder.  "You  Texians," 
he  cried,  "air  shore  the  rale  breed!" 

We  did  not,  however,  get  in  without  fighting  for  it, 
and  this  is  the  way  that  happened.  Through  my  com- 
panion's marvellous  woodcraft  we  kept  first  of  all  out 
of  the  way  of  scouts,  yet  drew  ever  nearer  to  the  sounds 
of  bombardment.  We  had  to  cross  the  river  in  one 
place,  and  stole  by  arduous  degrees  along  the  Alamo 
ditch,  which  twisted  out  westward  behind  the  walls 
of  the  Alamo  itself.  Often  we  lay  for  an  hour  or  longer 
in  clumps  of  prickly  pear  while  a  detachment  of  infantry 
crept  past  us  to  attack  the  mission.  But  we  never 
had  to  wait  long  before  musketry  cracked  furiously  off 
ahead,  and  the  Mexicans  came  pounding  back  in  dumb 
fright,  sinking  from  wounds  as  they  ran ;  at  which  Colonel 
Malaprop  would  slap  his  thigh  noiselessly,  throw  back 
his  head,  and  open  his  mouth  wide  in  the  gesture  of 
laughing. 

Night  came  on,  drizzly  and  cold  and  dark,  yet  we  could 
hope  little  to  evade  the  pickets  in  the  chaparral  every- 
where around  us.  We  crawled  on  hands  and  knees, 
stopping  often  while  Crockett  raised  his  head  to  listen; 
and  this  in  the  marshy  wet  until  after  midnight.  And 


JOLLY  COLONEL  MALAPROP     295 

then,  once,  Crockett  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and 
bore  me  down  until  I  lay  flat  on  my  stomach,  he  doing 
the  same.  Directly  I  heard  the  snap  of  a  twig,  very 
faint  and  quite  a  distance  behind.  Soon  there  came  the 
sound  again,  only  nearer,  and  yet  more,  as  of  many 
stealthy  footfalls.  Abruptly  a  musket  exploded,  a 
sentinel  yelled,  and  there  were  both  shots  and  yells 
that  meant  the  hottest  kind  of  a  little  battle  off  to  our 
rear.  Crockett  leaped  up,  and  went  charging  through 
the  brush  toward  the  din.  I  followed,  gripping  the 
tomahawk  he  had  loaned  me. 

'"the  minions  of  the  despot,  strike  'em  down!  Knock 
their  dam'  heads  off!  There !— There !— There !" 

The  words  mingled  with  the  shouts  and  blows,  and  I 
knew  the  voice.  It  could  be  none  other  than  the 
oratorical  voice  of  chubby  Al  Martin. 

"They're  our  people  from  Gonzales,"  I  yelled  to 
Crockett.  "They've  come — come  to  help  us  in  the 
Alamo." 

"Then  right  ahead  with  all  might!"  roared  Crockett, 
and  sped  before  me  like  a  deer. 

The  battle,  when  we  reached  it,  was  a  snarling,  strug- 
gling pack,  barely  seen  in  the  dark.  I  could  hear  their 
grunts  as  they  struck  with  knives  and  clubbed  muskets. 
There  were  perhaps  thirty  Texans  hemmed  round  by  a 
hundred  yelping  Mexicans,  and  against  this  outer  wall 
of  flesh  Crockett  threw  himself,  swinging  his  Betsy  on 
skulls,  leaping  from  one  spot  to  another  with  the  agility 
of  a  leopard,  and  all  the  while  bellowing  like  forty  men. 
I  followed  suit  religiously  with  the  tomahawk,  until  the 
Mexicans  decided  that  the  whole  Alamo  was  on  them. 
They  were,  besides,  dropping  like  flies  as  my  Gonzales 
neighbours  battled  from  within. 

"Now  rush  for  it!  Through  'em!  Right  through 
em'!"  cried  Martin. 


a96  THE  LONE  STAR 

"Right  you  air,"  roared  Crockett.     " Come  ahead! " 

The  wall  broke.  The  Mexicans  sprawled  in  the  breech, 
were  trampled  underfoot.  It  was  like  a  charge,  that 
rush  to  the  Alamo.  We  gained  the  open  space  south  of 
the  mission  chapel,  yelling  good  American  yells.  Yells  as 
good  came  back  to  us  from  the  Texans  on  the  roof  of 
the  Alamo.  We  poured  over  the  stockade,  over  cannon 
in  the  stockade,  and  on  into  the  yard  before  the  chapel. 
Instantly  we  were  hemmed  round  again,  but  to  be 
rapturously  hugged.  My  thirty  Gonzales  neighbouis 
and  Davy  Crockett  might  have  been  an  invincible  army. 
The  garrison,  a  hundred  and  fifty  men,  and — God's 
mercy  on  us  now! — several  women  and  a  child,  clamoured 
about  us  like  a  pitiful  little  shipwrecked  band  in  the  utter 
joy  of  rescue  at  last. 

"Now  if  Fannin  would  come! — If  our  express  only 
reaches  Fannin  at  Goliad! — If  Fannin  would  only  come — 
soon — soon!". 

This  was  the  prayer  on  every  side. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

BELEAGUERED 

THE  little  shipwrecked  band,  for  I  cannot  get  that 
description  of  them  out  of  my  head,  led  us  jubi- 
lantly into  the  old  monastery  of  the  Alamo,  which  now 
answered  for  hospital  and  barracks.  Martin's  thirty 
settlers  from  the  Guadalupe — the  Gonzales  Ranging  Com- 
pany, they  called  themselves — had  left  wives  and 
families  behind,  and  had  come  to  the  besieged  from  the 
outside  world.  For  the  moment  they  were  the  token  of 
hope.  Why  might  not  others  come  too,  and  deliver  the 
besieged  to  that  outside  world  which  had  seemed  cut 
off  forever?  But  the  merciless  horde  around  our  walls 
numbered  in  the  thousands,  and  the  joyous  greetings 
of  the  little  shipwrecked  band,  of  the  women  and  a  wee 
tot  of  a  girl  among  them,  cut  me  to  the  heart  with 
unutterable  pity. 

In  the  bare,  cheerless  long  room  of  the  monastery, 
where  we  had  the  light  of  pine-knots,  old  friends  recog- 
nised one  another,  and  there  were  rough  slaps  on  the 
back  and  rougher  jests,  and  more  than  one  Black  Betty 
went  from  lip  to  lip  among  the  ever-changing  groups, 
and  the  lustiest  of  all  was  their  boon  companion,  the 
blithe  slayer  of  grim  Care, my  own  jolly  Colonel  Malaprop. 
I  myself  held  apart,  for  I  expected  no  welcome  here. 

"Well,  suh?"  The  voice  was  Bowie's,  but  hoarse, 
and  thinned  by  a  cough.  The  look  in  his  gray  eyes 
was  cold  and  stern.  "Well,  suh?" 

"I've  brought  some  orders  from  General  Houston," 
I  replied. 

•297 


298  THE  LONE  STAR 

"Those  you  will  give  to  the  colonel  commandant,  Mr. 
Travis,"  he  said.  But  I  forgot  the  chill  of  his  frown  in 
a  keener  pang,  for  the  lank  frame  was  emaciated, 
the  cheeks  were  hollow,  and  about  the  mouth  there  were 
the  lines  of  suffering,  or  of  the  will  not  to  suffer.  The 
winter  sickness  foretold  odds  that  the  dauntless  lover  of 
odds  might  never  vanquish. 

"Where  is  Colonel  Travis?"  I  asked. 

"One  moment.  Tell  me  first,  why  could  not  all  the 
members  of  your  honourable  Council  come  with  you?" 

That  word  "Council"  brought  a  group  of  men  around 
us,  and  on  their  faces  the  reckless  hilarity  changed  to 
looks  that  were  not  good  to  see. 

"It's  the  more  pity,"  Bowie  went  on,  the  cold  mockery 
in  his  tone  grating  harshly,  "that  all  the  Council  cannot 
be  here  to  see  what  you  see,  or  rather,"  he  added  bitterly, 
"what  you  do  not  see.  For  instance,  do  you  happen 
to  see  the  men  that  Doc  Grant  took  from  us?  Hardly, 
suh,  as  they  are  dead  men  now." 

"Or  the  blankets  he  snatched  from  us  sick  uns?" 
croaked  a  haggard  man  who  lay  shivering  on  a  cot. 

"Or,"  growled  a  lean  plainsman,  "the  very  hosses  we 
needed  to  round  up  beeves  with?" 

"Or  hosses  for  our  scouts?"  added  a  third  like  a  pistol 
shot.  "With  hosses  to  ride,  we'd  'a'  known  in  time  the 
dirty  Mex'kins  was  comin'." 

"Now  as  to  that,"  interrupted  a  calm  voice,  "the 
Council  never  ordered  you  boys  to  dance  at  fandangoes, 
and  you  were  dancing  at  a  fandango,  you  know,  and 
that's  how  we  let  the  Mexicans  get  inside  cannon  range 
before  anybody  saw  'em." 

The  speaker  himself  had  picked  up  his  wife  and  child 
in  the  flight  from  the  town  to  the  Alamo.  He  was 
Lieutenant  Almeron  Dickinson,  a  Gonzales  man  and  one 
of  the  original  garrison  at  San  Antonio.  The  child  I 


BELEAGUERED  299 

had  seen  was  his,  and  of  all  there  Dickinson  had  the 
most  cause  for  reproaches. 

"But  all  the  same,"  muttered  he  who  growled,  "I'm 
hellish  regretful  we  didn't  go  to  San  Felipe  and  mob 
that  Council,  just  as  we  came  so  near  doing  a  few 
weeks  back." 

"And  that,"  said  Bowie  to  me,  "is  what  you'll  likely 
find  in  the  thoughts  of  a  great  many  here." 

"And  perhaps  in  mine  too,"  said  I.  "But,"  and  I 
raised  my  voice,  for  however  sorely  my  heart  bled  for 
them,  and  however  poignant  the  sense  of  my  own  blame, 
yet  censure  is  a  weapon  at  the  breast,  and  it  is  human  to 
parry,  "but,"  I  cried,  "I  need  none  of  your  thoughts  to 
tell  me  so.  I  have  come  with  orders." 

"Which  afo'mentioned  same,"  declared  Crockett,  "I'd 
uv  brung  in  fur  him,  but  he  jus'  grumbled  like  an  ol' 
hawse  with  an  empty  stomick.  I'd  as  well  whistled 
jigs  to  a  milestone,  he  was  that  sot." 

"And  a  good  thing  too,"  Al  Martin  swore  stoutly,  "or 
he  wouldn't  'ave  been  around  to  help  us  smite  'em 
to-night.  And  then,  p'raps,  we  wouldn't  'ave  got  in." 

"Oh  let  it  go,  Martin,"  I  protested,  suddenly  mellowing 
at  the  note  of  kindness. 

"And  let  all  the  other  part  go  too,"  spoke  up  someone 
who  had  that  moment  joined  the  group.  He  was  a 
slim  young  fellow  under  thirty,  a  young  lawyer,  to  judge 
from  the  studious  cast  of  his  gentle  features,  and  a 
Southern  gentleman  by  every  token  of  refinement  and 
courteous  deference  to  others.  "Yes,  we  may  even  let 
the  Council  go,"  he  said,  coming  among  us.  "Unless," 
he  added  winningly,  "there's  any  man  here  who  thinks 
he  has  made  no  mistakes  himself  as  to  saving  Texas. 
And  besides,  gentlemen,  it's  not  the  time." 

"No,  it's  not  the  time,"  .and  the  word  was  echoed. 
Not  that  alone,  but  forgiving  hands  were  held  out 


300  THE  LONE  STAR 

to  me.  For  me,  though,  their  reproaches  were  easier 
to  bear. 

"You're  right  there,  Travis,"  said  Bowie  heartily, 
and  his  hand  was  among  the  rest. 

But  Travis?  Then  the  slim  young  lawyer  was  Will 
Travis!  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  but  I  had  heard 
of  him  everywhere  in  Texas.  He  had  helped  drive  out 
the  first  Mexican  garrisons,  which  was  before  my  time, 
and  the  tales  of  his  splendid  courage  had  made  more 
intense  my  desire  to  come  to  this  new  country  and  cast 
my  lot  with  such  men  as  he.  Here  in  the  Alamo,  on 
Bowie's  declining,  they  had  all  forced  Travis  to  take 
the  command. 

"Someone  spoke  just  now,  sir,"  he  addressed  me 
kindly,  "  of  your  bringing  a  despatch." 

He  took  the  paper,  read  Houston's  big  shaky  scrawl, 
and  Bowie  did  the  same.  Neither  said  anything,  or 
thought  it  necessary  to  say  anything.  But  the  white  wo- 
men of  the  garrison,  Mrs.  Dickinson  and  her  sister,  were 
anxiously  watching  the  two  chiefs,  and  for  the  moment 
their  hopes  clung  to  that  paper  from  the  outside  world. 

"What — what  is  it,  colonel?"  faltered  Mrs.  Dickinson. 

"Oh  nothing,  ma'am,  really,"  said  Travis.  "General 
Houston  merely  wishes  us  to  blow  up  the  fort." 

"Well,  it'ull  be  blowed  up  all  right,"  said  my  friend 
who  growled. 

"And  bring  away  the  cannon,"  Travis  went  on. 

"But  man  alive,  we're  usin'  'em!" 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  Travis,  quizzically 
looking  over  the  little  band.  "General  Houston  orders 
us  to  evacuate." 

"What?"  cried  Martin.  "Back-track  before 
Mexicans?" 

"We  might,  just  possibly,"  said  Bowie,  "if  Houston 
had  an  army.  But  we  happen  to  know,  gentlemen,  that 


BELEAGUERED  301 

we're  the  only  force  between  here  and  the  Sabine  to  hold 
the  Mexicans  until  Houston  does  get  an  army." 

"Which,"  said  Travis,  "we'll  have  to  do;  at  least,  for 
as  long  as  we  can." 

"Now  if  thirty  men  can  cut  their  way  in,"  Bowie 
observed  temptingly,  "then  one  hundred  and  eighty 
can  cut  their  way  out,  and " 

"No  back-tracking!"  clamoured  one  hundred  and 
eighty  men. 

"I  thought  not,"  said  Bowie,  the  prospect. of  terrific 
odds  agleam  in  his  sunken  eyes.  "So  you  have  our 
answer,  Ripley.  When  will  you  start  back  with  it?" 

"That's  not  fair,"  I  cried  hotly.  "Can't  you  believe 
that — that  I  want  to  stay?" 

I  knew  I  deserved  it,  and  yet  I  was  hurt  that  these 
colossal  beings  assumed  that  I  was  not  worthy  of  their 
company.  I  had  despaired  already  of  ever  measuring 
myself  by  them.  To  move  among  the  stars,  to  be  of 
weight  to  affect  the  universe,  this  was  too  wild  a  pre- 
tension for  me  now.  Yet,  knowing  my  Texans,  I  dis- 
dained any  lesser  sphere.  I  wanted  my  car  hitched  to 
a  star,  even  though  it  dragged  hopelessly  on  the 
ground.  Then  I  could  at  least  always  behold  the 
glorious  constellation. 

Bowie  looked  at  me  hard.  "There,  Harry,"  he  said, 
"I  ask  your  pahdon,  suh." 

"And,"  cried  a  rollicking  voice,  "let's  all  liquor." 

"  We  will,  Davy,  we  will! "  shouted  everybody.  "  But 
we  want  a  toast,  Davy.  We  want  a  toast." 

"Then,"  said  Crockett,  lifting  his  flask,  and  pounding 
out  his  words  to  the  boom  of  cannon  outside,  "here's 
to  Santy  Annie " 

"No,"  no!" 

" — as  fierce  as  Napoleon  and  twice  as  natural " 

"Go  ahead,  Davy.     Right  ahead." 


302  THE  LONE  STAR 

"—and  wishin'  that  his  bones  will  do  in  hell  fur  grid- 
irons to  broil  the  souls  o'  cowards  on.  Now,  how's 
that?" 

The  roar  of  approval  indicated  that  that  was  stupen- 
dously acceptable. 

"Here,  here,"  said  Travis,  "let's  get  back  to  work. 
There's  those  jacals  down  by  the  river  to  burn  off  yet. 
We  can't  let  the  Mexicans  fire  at  us  from  behind  them 
another  day.  No,  twenty  will  be  enough.  The  rest 
of  you  fall  out." 

The  twenty  sallied  forth,  and  many  of  the  others 
returned  to  guard  duty  on  the  walls.  A  few  had  their 
turn  for  a  snatch  at  sleep,  but  the  full  force  of  the 
garrison  was  constantly  roused  by  alarms  during  the 
night.  Each  time,  from  the  furious  spurt  of  Mexican 
cannonading,  we  looked  for  a  general  assault.  It  was, 
however,  merely  a  devilish  system  of  tactics  to  wear 
out  the  besieged  through  loss  of  sleep. 

The  next  morning  .1  rose  definitely  with  the  sun-up 
gun  that  boomed  from  the  chapel  roof.  I  kicked  my 
bedding  of  alfalfa  into  a  corner  of  some  old  friar's  cell 
where  I  and  six  others  had  tried  to  sleep,  and  went  out 
to  the  walled-in  rectangle  of  the  monastery  to  souse  my 
face  in  a  bucket  of  water.  Many  of  the  garrison  were 
doing  the  same,  as  well  as  chatting  and  hurling  badinage, 
though  their  eyes  were  as  heavy  as  lead.  Poor  weary 
fellows,  they  had  just  come  down  from  the  walls,  where 
they  had  been  relieved  by  others  no  less  haggard.  These 
last  I  could  see  now  on  the  thick  walls  of  the  rectangle, 
watchful  for  a  shot  at  any  Mexican  prowling  too  near 
From  within  the  walls  were  banked  with  earth,  and  on 
top  there  were  sandbags,  behind  which  the  marksmen 
could  lie  down  and  aim.  The  monastery  itself  was  no 
more  than  a  row  of  cells  built  the  length  of  one  wall.  In 
the  row  was  also  the  long  room  used  for  a  hospital. 


BELEAGUERED  303 

The  cells  and  hospital  opened  on  the  rectangle.  At  one 
end  of  the  row  there  was  a  second-story  room  called  the 
tower  room.  The  walls  of  the  tower  room  formed  a 
parapet,  and  on  the  roof  behind  the  parapet  there  was 
a  battery. 

Once  in  a  long  while  the  Mexicans  on  the  surrounding 
elevations  contrived  to  throw  a  shell  in  among  us,  but 
these  shells  had  grown  purely  incidental.  No  one  in  the 
rectangle  appeared  to  mind  further  than  to  give  warning 
and  step  out  of  the  way.  As  the  rectangle  was  fully  one 
hundred  by  two  hundred  feet,  there  was  plenty  of  room. 
In  the  centre  Travis's  Negro  servant  and  two  Mexican 
boys  were  barbecuing  a  beef,  and  a  Mexican  woman, 
whom  we  called  Dona  Candelaria,  was  patting  tortillas. 
The  garrison  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  drive  in  a  bunch 
of  some  twenty  head  of  cattle  as  they  fled  here,  and  later, 
when  they  had  given  up  hope  of  bread,  they  had  found  a 
quantity  of  corn  stored  away.  Except  for  the  racket 
of  musketry  and  booming  of  cannon  fringing  this  little 
spot  around,  I  might  have  entered  a  busy  farmyard  at 
sunrise.  The  compound  within  the  thick  walls  was  a 
peaceful  oasis  in  a  chaos  of  roaring,  and  here  Dickinson's 
little  girl  was  romping  merrily  with  a  fuzzy  white  dog. 
When  the  dog  leaped  to  catch  at  her  skirts,  she  took 
refuge  behind  a  pair  of  gaunt  yellow  leggins,  and  out  of 
the  leggins  rose  the  spare  form  of  jolly  Colonel  Malaprop. 
As  for  the  terrifying  blasts  outside,  they  had  come  to 
mean  to  the  little  girl  only  the  customary  noises  of 
Nature  in  the  great  unknown  Universe  flanking  her 
playground. 

"The  top  of  it  to  you,"  Crockett  greeted  me  with  that 
heartiness  that  always  helps  to  start  the  day  right. 
"Made  yo'  toilet  yit,  as  the  great  folks  say?  I  mean," 
he  kindly  explained,  "if  you've  parted  yo'  hair  and  had 
a  nip  of  applejack?  No?  Well,  here  you  be.  And 


304  THE  LONE  STAR 

now,  let's  buckle  to  the  pone  and  jerked  cow.     Got  the 
digestion  of  a  cassowary,  myself." 

We  ate  standing,  he  all  the  while  serving  as  a  bulwark 
for  the  little  girl  pursued  by  the  fuzzy  little  white  dog. 
Here  her  mother  found  her,  and  carried  her  away  in 
arms  that  strained  fiercely  for  very  tenderness. 

"What  say  to  a  leetle  shootin'  with  the  ol'  backwoods 
hunter?"  This  was  Davy  Crockett's  cordial  invitation 
to  that  day's  work.  "The  livin'  subject  air  constant 
and  plenty.  'Pears  like  it  be  the  season  fur  seenyors, 
and  we  mought  bag  a  couple  or  two." 

He  led  the  way  across  the  rectangle  to  a  heavy  wooden 
door  that  opened  through  the  adjoining  wall  of  the 
Alamo's  chapel.  But  to  save  many  tedious  and  in- 
evitably vague  words  of  explanation,  we  may  as  well 
have  recourse  at  once  to  the  ground  plan  of  the  hoary 
old  mission.  (See  opposite  page.) 

Passing  through  the  outer  wall  of  the  church,  which 
was  fully  a  yard  thick,  Colonel  Crockett  and  I  entered 
a  dark  room  that  might  have  been  a  large  cave  dug  out 
of  the  solid  stone.  Here  the  monks  had  buried  their 
dead,  and  in  a  niche  they  had  kept  a  holy  light  constantly 
burning.  On  our  left  there  was  an  arched  opening,  and 
through  this  we  gained  another  cave-like  room,  which 
had  been  the  sacristy,  and  was  now  our  powder  magazine. 
But  the  few  kegs  were  being  steadily  depleted  by  the 
Texans  hurrying  in  and  out  to  fill  their  horns  and 
shot  pouches.  By  another  and  larger  door  we  entered 
the  ruined  old  chapel  itself.  The  cheerless  place  was 
flooded  with  light,  for  the  rear  wall  had  partly  crumbled 
from  the  top,  and  overhead  the  arched  masonry  had 
given  way.  Only  at  the  front  was  there  any  of  the  flat 
roof  left;  which,  however,  sufficed  as  a  platform  for 
cannon.  Here  the  facade  wall  rose  high  enough  for  a 
parapet,  and  over  this  parapet  waved  the  Mexican 


H 

J 


PLAZA 


or 


MISSION 


|     GHANABY 


MONASTERY 
RECTANGLE 


w— ~ — 

end   Town  5 

GROUND  PLAN  OF  THE  ALAMO 


3o6  THE  LONE  STAR 

tricolour  bearing  the  figures,  "  1824."  In  defence  of  the 
Mexican  Constitution  the  Texan  sharpshooters  on  the 
platform  were  holding  off  Mexican  armies. 

By  a  ladder  we  clambered  up  into  the  smoke  and  din 
of  the  platform,  and  we  found  that  the  present  excite- 
ment was  centred  about  the  desire  of  the  enemy  to  bridge 
the  river  between  us  and  the  town.  The  mesquite 
jacals  on  our  bank,  which  their  best  marksmen  had  used 
for  breastworks,  were  now  smouldering  lumps  of  ashes, 
thanks  to  Travis 's  sortie  the  night  before,  so  that  the 
bridge  builders  were  a  fair  mark.  But  the  Mexicans 
had  dragged  up  two  long  nine-pounders,  and  were 
making  a  tremendous  pretence  of  blowing  in  the  front 
of  the  church.  The  cannon  were  only  light  field  pieces, 
though,  and  after  the  first  involuntary  respect  for  the 
hideous  shriek  of  their  shot,  one  lost  respect  altogether. 
There  were  equally  inefficient  batteries  at  the  old  mill 
north  of  us  and  back  of  us  on  the  swell  of  the  prairie, 
and  also  mid  the  scrub  oak  and  cottonwoods  on  all  sides, 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  did  about  as  much  damage 
as  the  puffs  of  white  smoke  from  their  muzzles.  These 
white  puffs  formed  a  chain  of  filmy  evanescent  rosettes 
around  us,  while  in  front,  as  we  looked  over  the  walls 
of  the  mission's  plaza  and  across  the  river,  we  faced 
the  town  itself ,  as  ever  a  jumble  of  blocks  fringed  raggedly 
by  rush-thatched  huts.  In  the  centre  of  the  town,  rising 
over  the  flat  roofs,  was  the  dome  of  the  cathedral,  and 
over  the  dome  floated  the  usual  blood-red  flag.  The  cut- 
throat emblem  was  always  there,  always  before  our  eyes, 
an  ugly  token  of  an  ugly  doom  already  decreed.  And 
to  oppose  that  decree  we  were  one  hundred  and  eighty 
haggard  men  short  of  food  and  ammunition,  having 
more  than  three  times  as  many  yards  of  outer  wall  to 
defend.  Many  of  us  must  have  turned  sick  at  heart  as 
we  gazed  over  the  enclosed  acres  of  the  mission,  at  the 


BELEAGUERED  307 

squared  walls  that  had  never  an  angle  for  vantage 
against  assault;  then  at  the  hundreds  of  sluggish,  distant 
forms,  the  Mexicans  in  their  camps  around  us,  and  last 
of  all,  at  the  constant  irritating  menace  of  that  blood- 
red  flag.  Yet  there  were  few  who  allowed  themselves 
to  think  on  these  things  for  long  at  a  time. 

"Now,"  said  Crockett,  the  minute  his  head  showed 
above  the  roof,  "who's  fur  a  shootin'  match?  Eh,  you 
fust,"  he  said,  handing  me  an  extra  rifle.  "That  critter 
swabbin'  out  the  piece  down  at  the  river,  try  him." 

It  was  a  good  long  shot,  but  I  rammed  a  tight  ball  and 
aimed  with  care. 

"Capital!"  cried  Martin  as  I  fired  and  the  Mexican 
leaped  high. 

Crockett  laughed  merrily. 

"You  did  stump  his  toe,  fur  a  fact,"  he  laughed. 
"Look,  he's  hoppin'  like  a  robin  on  a  stove  lid.  But 
you  a'n't  got  Betsy,  you  know.  Now  see  that  varmint 
a-p'intin' t'other  cannon?  Jus' see  his  head,  eh?  Well." 

His  gun  went  to  his  shoulder  with  a  neat  precision,  his 
head  bent  over  the  stock,  and  with  eyes  as  keen  as  a 
lizard's,  and  nerves  as  steady  as  the  political  course  of 
Henry  Clay,  to  use  his  own  words,  he  fired.  The  Texans, 
themselves  deadly  marksmen,  buzzed  in  admiration.  The 
head  behind  the  cannon  had  vanished  as  though  blotted 
out,  and  under  the  carriage  a  form  had  stretched  itself. 

"That  sure  ought  to  bring  you  the  cut  of  the  beef  in 
any  shooting  match,"  exclaimed  Martin.  "But,"  said 
he,  fondly  patting  the  old  brass  six-pounder  that  he  was 
loading,  "here's  our  pet,  the  Last  Argument,  you  know. 
She  started  this  present  confab  back  on  the  Guadalupe, 
and  she's  been  arguing  pretty  nigh  ever  since.  Your 
Betsy,  Davy?  Pshaw,  tell  me  how  long  it  would  take 
your  Betsy  to  talk  six  pounds  wuth?  Well,  our  blessed 
one  does  that  every  time  she  opens  her  mouth.  Or  can 


3o8  THE  LONE  STAR 

your  Betsy  talk  the  President  General  Excelentisimo 
out  of  his  boarding  house?  Well,  see  that  red  lump 
of  a  shack  just  the  other  side  the  river  among  them 
jacals,  with  the  Mexican  snake  over  it?" — he  meant  the 
Mexican  flag — "Well  sir,  that's  the  boarding  house." 

Sweating  in  the  cold  wind,  his  coonskin  vest  thrown 
off,  his  collar  open  on  his  chubby  neck,  Al  Martin 
tugged  at  his  pet,  sighted,  and  then,  confident  and  eager 
as  a  fat  man,  he  nodded  to  the  man  with  the  torch.  At 
the  roar  we  saw  the  Excelentisimo' s  headquarters  vanish 
in  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  gaudily  uniformed  officers  stag- 
gering out.  When  the  dust  cleared,  we  saw  that  there 
was  a  hole  through  the  house. 

"Reckon  we  got  Sant'  Ana? "  hopefully  asked  a  Texan. 

Martin  grunted.  "Just  as  if,"  he  said,  "the slimy  old 
eel  would  get  in  range  in  daylight!  No,  you  can  bet  on 
that  blindfolded." 

"Anyways,  Cap'n,"  said  Crockett,  "you  win  the  hull 
beef,  and  that  Last  Argymint  shore  has  a  bad  tongue. 
But  Betsy  now — well,  Betsy  does  her  little  talkin'  a 
considerable  heap  faster.  She's  talked  'em  already  out  o* 
buildin'  that  bridge.  What  next,  boys?  Thar's  not  a 
seenyor  left." 

Only  to  wait,  that  came  next.  To  think  on  what 
waiting  meant,  that  came  next.  These  lulls  were  the 
hideous  part.  We  cursed  our  besiegers  only  when  they 
were  not  fighting  us.  One  man  gazed  long  on  the  old 
Goliad  road. 

"God,  if  Fannin  would  only  come!"  he  said. 

"Or  Jimmy  Bonham,"  added  George  Cottle,  one  of 
my  Gonzales  neighbours.  "You  say  Bonham  went  to 
Fannin  for  help.  Do  you  think  he'll  come  back  ? " 

"Jimmy,"  replied  one  who  knew  Bonham,  "is  just 
the  S'uth  Ca'lina  gentleman  to  do  that  very  thing." 

"But  it's  time  he — Wait,  ain't  that  a  prowler?" 


BELEAGUERED 


"Where?  Where?"  All  were  eager  for  a  shot. 

"Down  there,  crawling  under  the  bank  of  the  ditch. 
No,  now  he's  hid  in  the  bushes.  Yes,  there — don't  you 
see? — wading  in  the  water,  and  coming  this  way." 

The  Texans  jerked  their  rifles  at  one  angle  and  an- 
other, trying  to  draw  a  bead  on  the  figure  of  a  man 
whom  we  saw  now  and  again  through  the  shrubbery 
and  cottonwoods  along  the  Alamo  ditch.  He  stole  in 
and  out  craftily,  like  a  hunted  creature.  Often  he 
stopped  to  listen.  Finally  he  looked  up  and  saw  us. 
Then  he  waved  his  hand. 

"Lord  save  him,  that's  no  Mexican!" 

"Not  by  a — No,  God  A'mighty,  it's  Bonham!  It's 
Bonham,  I  tell  you!" 

We  shouted  the  news  over  into  the  monastery  yard, 
and  across  to  those  on  the  roof  of  the  tower  room,  and  in 
no  time  we  were  shinning  down  the  ladder,  throwing 
open  the  big  front  doors,  and  scrambling  over  the  stock- 
ade. Thus  we  met  the  returning  messenger  from  Goliad, 
and  brought  him  in.  We  honoured  him  vociferously, 
but  our  joy  was  unbounded  too,  for  his  first  words, 
answering  the  anxious  question  on  every  lip,  were: 

"They're  coming,  boys,  they're  coming.  Yes,  yes, 
and  they've  started  already,  Fannin,  and  three  hundred 
men,  and  four  cannon.  They're  on  the  road  now." 

"And  you,  Jimmy,  you " 

"Oh,  I  came  on  ahead  to  tell  you,  so's  you'll  feel  more 
like  holding  out  a  few  days  longer." 

From  that  moment  there  were  always  eyes  strained 
southeastward  on  the  old  Goliad  road.  We  held  our- 
selves ready  night  and  day  for  the  supreme  sally  when 
the  Goliad  men  should  need  a  welcome  backed  by  our 
rifles.  The  Mexicans  had  already  deployed  a  brigade  on 
the  old  road  to  intercept  them.  The  Mexicans  were 
informed  as  well  as  we. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

A    SPECIES    OF    ATONEMENT 

ON  BONHAM'S  coming,  it  was  hard  for  me  to  wait 
while  he  told  his  news  over  and  over  again,  and 
held  long  conferences  with  Travis  and  the  sick  Bowie. 
Bonham  was  a  recent  volunteer,  and  I  had  never  seen 
him  until  now,  but  I  thought  it  just  possible  that 
he  might  know  something  of  my  brother  Phil.  In  this, 
however,  I  was  partly  disappointed.  He  had  stayed  only 
over  night  at  Goliad,  but  he  could  tell  me  that  most 
of  the  Grays  were  still  with  Fannin,  along  with  five  more 
companies  of  youngsters  from  Alabama  and  Georgia. 
The  chances  were  therefore  good  that  I  should  see  my 
brother  when  Fannin  arrived. 

"And  Mr.  Buckalew,"  I  asked.     "You  saw  him?" 

"Indeed  yes,  for  the  reason  that  he  bombarded  me 
with  questions  about  his  daughter.  Poor  man,  he  had 
come  to  Goliad  looking  for  her,  while  she  must  have  been 
here  in  San  Antonio  all  the  time.  Then  he  was  set  on 
coming  back  with  me,  but  I  made  him  see  that  we  could 
never  rescue  Miss  Nan  without  Fannin's  help,  and  the 
last  I  saw  of  him,  he  was  tugging  at  the  wheels  of  a  mired 
cannon,  and  swearing  like  mad  because  nobody  else  was 
hurrying  fast  enough.  By  the  way,  didn't  you  say  your 
name  was " 

"Ripley,  sir," 

"Then  you  escaped  from  the  Mexicans  the  other  day  ? " 

"Yes,  but  how " 

"Gritton  told  me." 

"Gritton?" 

310 


A  SPECIES  OF  ATONEMENT  311 

"Why  yes,  I  stumbled  across  him  last  night  near 
Seguin's  rancho,  on  my  way  here.  He  had  concluded 
that  you  must  be  here  too,  and  on  the  chance  that  you 
were,  he  sent  you  this  note.  He  seemed  pretty  anxious 
for  you  to  get  it,  though  I  suppose  he  would  have  done 
what  he  could  anyway  to  help  me  through.  Seemed 
to  know  all  about  how  the  pickets  were  stationed. 
Yet  there's  no  reason  to  doubt  that  he's  a  loyal — Why, 
man,  you've  turned  as  white — Not — not  bad  news,  eh?" 

In  my  anguish  I  nearly  handed  him  Gritton's  note.  But 
I  checked  the  impulsive  craving  for  sympathy.  For 
Gritton  hinted  not  only  that  Nan  was  in  great  peril;  he 
insinuated  worse.  It  was  none  other  than  shame,  shame 
for  Nan,  that  the  blackhearted  liar  insinuated.  But 
here  is  the  hideous  thing  in  full: 

Mr.  Edward  Gritton  begs  to  advise  Mr.  Ripley,  sir,  that  the 
young  person  in  whom  he  is  interested  has  had  the  misfortune  to 
discover  the  identity  of  possibly  a  greater  personage  than  him- 
self who  also  is  not  of  stone  in  her  presence.  The  name  of  the 
greater  personage,  who  happens  to  be  the  supreme  ruler  of  a  not 
inconsiderable  nation,  was  attached  to  certain  passes  through  the 
lines  issued  to  the  young  person  in  question  and  the  humble 
servitor  of  Mr.  Ripley,  sir,  and  seeing  that  potent  name,  she 
betrayed  evidences  of  not  being  unaffected  by  the  glamour  in  the 
attentions  of  the  greater  personage. 

Lamentably  in  consequence,  Mr.  Gritton  is  under  the  pain  of 
confessing  that  his  own  efforts  in  the  young  person's  behalf  are  in 
danger  of  being  neutralised  by  her  own  wishes.  Mr.  Gritton,  how- 
ever, cannot  doubt  but  that  the  fascinating  Mr.  Ripley,  sir,  would 
succeed  where  Mr.  Gritton  dares  not  hope  to,  and  that  in  the 
light  of  the  countenance  of  Mr.  Ripley,  sir,  the  splendour  of  the 
President  General  himself  would  fade  to  noisome  vapour.  Should 
Mr.  Ripley,  sir,  entertain  a  like  respect  of  his  own  powers,  he  will 
find  the  young  person  domiciled  at  the  rancho  of  Mr.  Seguin, 
ably  guarded  by  the  dragoons  of  the  august  personage  afore- 
mentioned. 

Mr.  Ripley,  sir,  may  be  the  more  hopeful  in  this  if  he  cares  to 
flatter  himself  that  the  young  person's  faithlessness  is  due  to  the 


3 12  THE  LONE  STAR 

great  personage  assuring  her  that  he,  Mr.  R.,  sir,  has  purchased 
safety  at  the  price  of  blackening  his  own  name  in  her  regard : 
t.  e.,  by  solemnly  agreeing  to  withdraw  as  a  competitor  for  her 
favours.  The  young  person's  belief  in  this  infamy  naturally  makes 
her  the  more  tractable  as  regards  the  suit  of  the  great  personage. 
Hence  the  need  of  Mr.  R.,  sir,  refuting  the  same  before  he  dies 
by  himself  appearing  before  the  young  person.  Mr.  R.,  sir,  can 
but  die  in  any  case,  but  in  this  way  he  will  have  saved  the  young 
person  from  an  ignominy  that  shall  be  nameless. 

The  liar!  The  cynical,  insufferable  liar!  But  why  his 
letter?  Why  all  the  trouble  to  intercept  our  messenger, 
whom  he  knew  would  be  returning  from  Goliad,  in  order 
to  write  me  this?  Nan  was  in  danger,  I  knew  that 
already.  Yet  Gritton,  in  his  sincere  desire  to  save  her, 
could  not  hope  for  me  to  help  him.  He  had  too  con- 
temptuous an  opinion  of  my  prowess  for  that.  I  almost 
believed  at  first  that  he  only  meant  to  torture  me  during 
my  last  hours  by  the  thought  that  with  me  must  die  all 
knowledge  of  Nan.  The  field  was  clear.  He  might  win 
her,  marry  her,  carry  her  away,  and  her  father  would 
never  hear  of  her  again.  This  explanation  was  much 
more  probable  than  that  he  was  seeking  to  make  me 
escape  from  the  Alamo  and  again  cross  his  path.  His 
impatient  frown  when  Nan  intervened  for  me  at  the  fan- 
dango was  evidence  at  last  that  he  admitted  my  exis- 
tence, and  this  being  so,  he  could  not  wish  to  entice  me 
from  the  chances  of  death  in  the  Alamo.  But  one  way 
or  another,  there  was  dark  calculation  here  somewhere, 
as  was  ever  the  case  with  the  lazy,  sleepy,  and  incom- 
prehensible Englishman.  Yet  my  fears  for  Nan  settled 
me  at  last  in  this  theory,  that  she  was  really  in  grave 
danger,  and  that,  in  the  weird  vagaries  of  Gritton's 
soul,  he  wanted  to  save  her  though  he  lost  her  himself. 
This  would  account  for  the  exquisite  sting  in  every 
syllable  of  his  note.  He  was  merely  laying  salve  to  his 
own  humiliation. 


A  SPECIES  OF  ATONEMENT  313 

My  first  impulse,  wrenching  every  heartstring  to  a 
tangle,  was  to  go  to  her,  to  go  to  her  no  matter  the  cost. 
Then  the  meaning  of  the  cost  slowly  grew  on  me.  Had 
he  spoken  only  of  Nan's  peril,  then  I  could  have  shown 
his  letter  to  Bowie  and  Travis  and  Crockett,  to  all  of 
them,  and  they  would  force  me  to  leave  them,  and  go 
to  her.  But  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  let  any  eyes  see 
the  words  that  connected  Nan  with  shame.  That  was 
out  of  the  question,  and  I  did  not  once  consider  it.  They 
might  not  understand.  For  them  Gritton  was  still  an 
honourable  man.  They  might  even  believe  what  he 
wrote.  They  did  not  know  that  I  had  seen  him  at  the 
fandango  unmasked  as  a  spy,  simply  because  here  again 
I  should  have  to  bring  in  Nan's  name.  Nor  could  I 
merely  tell  them  of  Nan's  danger,  for  then  they  would 
want  to  see  the  note,  and  on  my  refusal,  they  would 
surely  decide  that  I  had  manufactured  the  whole  story 
as  an  excuse  to  desert  them.  And  Gritton  must  have 
known  that  I  could  not  show  his  note.  Had  he  then 
inserted  his  lies  about  Nan  only  to  force  me  to  what 
would  look  like  the  basest  and  most  cowardly  desertion 
of  the  superb  heroes  around  me?  It  was  worthy  of  the 
adroit  intriguant.  It  was  fiendish  enough  for  him. 

For  the  moment,  though,  there  was  this  reprieve  from 
such  a  decision — if  Fannin  would  only  come!  And  all 
that  night  I  stood  guard  on  the  church  roof,  looking 
always  to  the  southeast,  and  always  listening.  If 
Fannin  would  only  come!  But  of  all  there,  I  think  that 
I  doubted  first.  For  I  alone  knew,  since  I  could  not 
nerve  myself  to  dash  the  hopes  of  the  garrison,  that 
Santa  Ana  had  assigned  an  army  to  that  other  little 
shipwrecked  band  at  Goliad.  I  could  not  hope  that 
Fannin's  men  would  come.  And  they  did  not  come. 
They  never  came,  that  other  shipwrecked  band. 

During  two  more  long  days,  hopelessness  grew  into  the 


3 14  THE  LONE  STAR 

certainty  of  despair  with  us  all.  Yet  growing  so  slowly, 
despair  took  on  a  familiarity,  as  though  it  were  the 
regular  thing  in  life,  was  routine,  habit-bred  into  us 
from  childhood.  But  there  could  be  no  lasting  gloom 
while  our  big  family  was  blessed  with  such  a  member  as 
jolly  Colonel  Malaprop.  His  good  humour  was  simply 
indomitable,  and  he  made  of  despair  a  very  cheery 
thing.  Bowie  loved  fearful  odds  for  strictly  bat- 
tling purposes,  but  Davy  Crockett  laughed  at  them. 
He  did  not  lack  for  occasion  now.  But  the  odds  against 
Bowie  were  heavier  than  those  against  us.  The  winter 
sickness  had  turned  to  virulent  pneumonia,  and  that 
brought  him  down  at  last  to  his  cot.  He  lay  in  the 
baptistry  of  the  chapel,  which  was  more  like  a  vault  in 
the  thick  stone  walls.  Here  he  was  attended  by  the 
Mexican  woman,  Dona  Candelaria,  particularly,  and  by 
the  entire  garrison  generally,  and  here  our  leaders  held 
their  councils  of  war.  But  the  sunshine  of  the  dark, 
windowless  sick  chamber  was  Davy  Crockett.  He  had 
promised  Bowie  faithfully  to  bring  all  the  news. 

"What's  this,  Jim  Bowie,"  he  was  saying  the  third 
evening  after  Bonham's  return,  "what's  this  here, 
sneerin'  at  yo'  grog?  Well  blast  my  ol'  shoes,  a  man 
that'll  do  that  degrades  himself  below  the  varmint 
creation.  Now  I'm  not  askin'  you  to  go  the  heavy  wet, 
Jim.  Only  a  drop,  jus'  to  acquit  yo'self  o'  total  ab- 
stinents,  like.  Thar,  that's  the  way!  We  got  to 
knock  the  trotters  frum  under  that  cough,  you  know." 

For  a  moment  a  smile  lighted  up  Bowie's  sunken  gray 
eyes,  but  the  cough  came  just  the  same,  and  he  gripped 
his  throat  savagely,  as  he  might  the  throat  of  an  Indian. 

"Still  no — no  signs  of  their  attacking? "  he  demanded. 

"Well,  whittlin'  it  all  down  to  the  leetle  end  o'  nothin', 
I  do  reckon  the  ol'  sarpint  air  jus'  holdin'  off  tell  the 
last  tarnal  big  caravans  o'  monkeys  kin  rest  arter  footin' 


A  SPECIES  OF  ATONEMENT  315 

it  clean  here  frum  Mexico.  But  Jim,  I'm  bad  skeered 
that " 

"No  you  aren't,  Davy,"  said  Bowie,  glancing  humor- 
ously on  the  others  of  us  around  his  cot,  "nor  anybody 
else." 

"Yes  I  am,  that  they  mought  be  considerable  rested 
by  now,  or  I  haven't  any  knowledge  o'  the  use  o'  breeches, 
and " 

"Look  here,  gentlemen,"  Bowie  interposed  severely, 
"you've  been  coming  in  and  out  all  the  afternoon,  and 
you're  all  bursting  with  something.  Now  what  is  it? 
Don't  you  reckon  I  can  hear  those  drums  and  fifes  off 
in  the  distance,  all  around  us?  Don't  you  reckon  I  can 
guess  they're  getting  ready  for  an  assault?  But  are 
they?  Are  they?  Out  with  it!" 

Men  looked  at  one  another  significantly.  Others, 
laden  with  cannon  balls  and  powder,  stopped  at  the  door 
on  their  way  to  the  roof.  Had  Davy  told  him  yet? 
they  whispered  of  one  another. 

"Yep,  Jim,"  said  Davy  cheerily,  "you  air  shore  on 
the  right  trail  o'  the  critter,  and  I'll  have  to  come  out 
plump  with  the  hull  mess.  It's  a  fact,  the  town  looks 
as  rowdy  as  Hell's  Gate,  all  b'ilin*  like  a  pot.  The 
seenyors  been  jus'  a-pourin'  out,  like  bees  out  of  a  gum, 
a-crossin '  the  river  south  of  us  and  nawth  of  us.  Thar's 
a  million  glitterin'  baynets  around  us  now,  but  out  o' 
range,  a-sittin'  down  on  the  leetle  hills.  They  air  like 
the  rim  of  a  cart  wheel,  we  bein'  the  hub,  and  thar's 
only  the  spokes  lackin'.  Only  the  spokes,  you 
savvy " 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do.  The  rim  will  break  up  to  form 
the  spokes,  and  each  spoke  will  be  a  column  with  scaling 
ladders,  and  then — and  then  the  game  of  subtraction 
will  begin.  We  must  leave  as  few  of  them  as  possible, 
gentlemen,  as  few  as  possible  for  the  rest  of  Texas  to 


316  THE  LONE  STAR 

handle."  But  the  exultant  gleam  died  out  of  the  sick 
man's  eyes,  and  he  throttled  the  cough  in  his  throat, 
and  tossed  his  head  feverishly  on  his  pillow  from  one 
cheek  to  the  other.  He  moaned  as  the  shorn  Samson. 
"Lord,  Lord,"  he  cried,  "and  it's  the  first  time  I've 
ever  had  a  chance  against  five  thousand!" 

Over  in  the  monastery  yard  our  bugle  sent  forth  a 
piercing  note.  We  started,  thinking  that  it  was  for 
quarters,  that  the  attack  had  begun. 

"No,  no,"  shouted  Al  Martin,  his  face  appearing  at 
the  door.  "There's  a  general  council  called.  Travis 
wants  us  all  here  in  the  church." 

Over  our  heads  we  heard  the  men  coming  down  the 
ladder  from  the  roof.  The  others,  on  the  rectangle  walls 
and  in  the  Alamo  plaza,  trooped  in  by  the  side  door 
through  the  monks'  burial  ground.  Flaming  torches 
conjured  ghostly,  drunken  shadows  to  life  on  the  old 
Walls  of  the  chapel,  while  overhead  the  leaden  sky  was 
a  roof  of  black  night.  The  incessant  alarms  had  stopped 
for  once,  and  the  unusual  silence  of  the  world  outside 
was  ominous,  like  a  deadly  storm  in  the  gathering.  As 
the  Texans  came,  I  noticed  by  the  light  of  torches  the 
peculiar  set  of  jaw  on  each  haggard  face.  It  was  a 
solemn  and  unsmiling  expression,  like  that  of  men  at  a 
funeral.  In  their  bearing  there  was  a  certain  awkward- 
ness, which  also  is  peculiar  to  assemblages  at  a  funeral. 
The  restraint  came  from  unfamiliarity  with  solemn 
things.  They  felt  that  an  attitude  of  mind  was  ex- 
pected of  them,  but  outwardly  it  changed  to  a  kind  of 
gesture,  and  was  therefore  awkward.  They  sensed  the 
solemnity  of  their  gathering  here  now.  They  knew 
the  solemnity  to  be  in  themselves,  but  the  token,  the 
sable  draperies,  rendered  them  self-conscious.  They 
tried  involuntarily  to  make  the  gesture  accord  with 
the  token. 


A  SPECIES  OF  ATONEMENT  317 

Travis  was  among  the  first  to  appear.  He  was  very 
business-like,  this  young  Alabamian.  His  business 
was  to  spend  one  hundred  and  eighty  men  with  the 
utmost  efficiency.  In  the  cold  arithmetic  of  sub- 
traction, by  how  many — how  many,  O  Lord — might  they 
lessen  the  score  ?  Travis  had  spent  himself  as  a  prodigal 
already,  not  only  in  purse,  for  all  did  that,  but  in  physical 
strength,  night  and  day,  throughout  the  past  two  weeks. 
Early  in  the  siege  he  had  despatched  a  message  begging 
a  friend  to  care  for  his  wife  and  little  boy.  There 
was  nothing  he  could  do  further  in  that  quarter,  and  he 
kept  thoughts  of  them  from  the  surface,  even  as  my  old 
Gonzales  neighbours  fought  down  the  agony  of  remem- 
bering their  own  families. 

"I  shall  ask  you,"  said  Travis,  "to  all  step  to  this 
end  of  the  church." 

We  obeyed,  like  young  people  rehearsing  a  function 
of  some  sort.  Eight  or  ten  had  left  their  beds  of  straw 
in  the  monastery.  They  were  still  sick  from  wounds 
gotten  during  the  assault  on  San  Antonio  three  months 
before,  from  wounds  that  had  been  neglected.  Bowie 
could  not  stand,  but  he  had  asked  us  to  carry  him  in 
his  cot.  The  entire  weary  sleep-starved  garrison 
crowded  to  one  end  of  the  church,  and  waited,  still  with 
that  sense  of  awkward  restraint  on  them.  Travis 
stepped  out,  as  he  might  face  a  jury.  But  he  made 
neither  argument  nor  appeal.  He  looked  the  Texans 
over  for  a  moment.  They  had  shifted  their  weights 
pretty  much  on  one  foot,  some  twisting  their  old  caps 
in  their  hands,  and  all  with  the  docility  of  rough  grown- 
up men  who  find  themselves  entrapped  at  a  prayer 
service.  But  that  peculiar  set  of  jaw  was  not  to  be 
mistaken. 

Travis  spoke  to  them  very  simply.  Though  used  to 
speaking,  he  too  betrayed  restraint.  He  stumbled  for 


3i8  THE  LONE  STAR 

words,  not  from  emotion,  but  rather  in  the  fear  lest  a 
stirring  phrase  escape  him,  lest  the  phrase  be  tawdry 
and  cheap,  a  desecration.  His  diffidence  was  only  the 
deeper  reverence  for  the  unfamiliar  thing,  solemnity. 
They  knew  of  course,  he  said,  what  the  end  must  be. 
There  was  no  need  to  tell  them  that.  They  knew  too, 
that  it  was  near.  There  could  be  only  a  few  hours,  at 
best,  for  those  who  stayed.  There  was  as  little  chance, 
also,  for  any  who  might  choose  to  attempt  escape.  But 
if  any  did  so  choose,  it  was  no  time  for  a  man  to  look  to 
another's  commands.  In  this  he  gave  back  his  authority, 
the  authority  they  had  given  him.  To  give  back  to 
each  man  the  supreme  decision,  for  this  he  had  called 
them  together.  He  would  lead,  if  they  still  wished, 
those  who  remained.  But  in  his  heart  he  would  hold 
no  reproach  for  any  man  who  chose — the  other  thing. 

"And  yet,"  he  added  brokenly,  "I  shall  dearly  love 
those  who  stay." 

He  paused,  waiting.  But  no  man  spoke.  They 
stood  as  before,  on  one  foot  perhaps,  or  twisting  their 
ragged  caps. 

"Well  then,"  said  Travis,  "we  might  put  it  to  a  vote. 
Here,  we'll  do  it  this  way."  He  drew  his  sword,  and 
traced  a  line  in  the  dust  on  the  stone  floor.  The  line 
separated  him  from  the  rest  of  us.  "  Now,  let  those  who 
wish  to  stay  cross  over  the  line." 

Bowie  thrust  back  his  chin  on  his  pillow,  looking  up 
at  those  around  him,  and  signalled  with  his  eyes.  I  was 
standing  near,  but  drew  hastily  away.  At  once,  though, 
four  others  caught  up  the  litter,  and  bore  it  across  the 
line.  The  sick  man's  gaze  held  mine  as  he  went,  and 
I  knew  within  me  that  Jim  Bowie  was  passing  out  of 
my  life,  and  I  out  of  the  esteem  of  a  man  among  men. 

The  others  had  waited  only  that  he  should  go  first — 
a  delicacy  not  consciously  thought  out,  but  instinctive. 


A  SPECIES  OF  ATONEMENT  319 

Now  they  sauntered  across  the  line,  an  irregular,  shuffling 
mass,  as  if  they  were  being  called  to  supper.  No  one 
took  any  heed  of  what  the  next  man  was  doing,  for  it 
was  perfectly  natural  that  they  should  all  come  to  supper 
when  called.  It  was  just  that  way,  until  all  of  them  had 
gone  over  the  line.  Then  the  prayer  service,  the  de- 
pressing sense  of  restraint,  was  at  an  end,  and  they 
began  to  chat  among  themselves.  One  noticed  for  the 
first  time  that  I  had  not  crossed  over,  and  he  started  to 
call  me,  thinking  of  course  that  I  was  only  a  bit  slow. 
But  at  once  it  dawned  on  him  that  my  staying  behind 
was  a  matter  of  conscious  decision.  The  others  held  up 
their  torches,  and  peered  at  me  all  alone  there  in  the 
dark  end  of  the  church. 

My  feet  lifted  one  after  the  other  as  by  galvanic  im- 
pulse, until  I  stamped  them  down  to  the  floor.  Only 
across  the  line,  just  a  stride,  it  was  so  easy,  so  very  easy. 
But  to  stand,  to  stand  fast  while  one  counted  ten,  this 
was  the  meaning  of  the  cost.  I  had  come  here  to  see 
them  through  to  the  end.  For  this  I  had  left  San 
Felipe,  had  said  good-bye  to  Nan.  The  devoted  band 
had  hushed  their  reproaches,  had  tolerated  me  among 
them,  had  granted  me  the  boon  of  expiation.  And 
now  I  must  go  from  them  a  renegade,  worse  than  a 
filthy  leper,  for  so  Gritton  had  arranged  it  in  his  hideous 
message.  I  could  tell  them  nothing  of  reasons,  nothing 
of  the  foul  hints  against  Nan.  I  could  not  do  that,  even 
though  I  knew  they  would  shortly  die.  So  I  must  leave 
them  to  die,  reviling  me  in  their  hearts,  and  never  to 
learn  in  this  life  that  no  mere  fear  of  death  had  made 
me  turn  coward.  To  face  danger  was  anguish  for  me, 
and  it  was  anguish  that  had  never  grown  less,  but  to 
turn  from  danger  was  now  a  matter  for  courage  before 
which  I  shrank  in  horror.  I  could  yet  cross  the  line — 
one  stride 


320  THE  LONE  STAR 

"Now  then,"  said  Travis,  "as  we've  all  decided"— 
He  paused  expectantly,  and  in  a  hushed  silence  that 
made  the  old  church  seem  a  tomb,  they  looked  my  way, 
waiting.  The  split  half  of  a  tooth  fell  on  my  tongue. 
My  locked  jaws  had  cleft  it. 

" — as  we've  decided,"  said  Travis,  "let's  get  ready, 
and — and,  God's  mercy  on  us  all!" 

I  had  made  no  mistake  as  to  the  filthy  leper.     The 
garrison    scattered    about    their    duties.     They    loaded 
rifles,  to  the  last  extra  one.      They  carried  ammunition 
where  needed.     But  not  one  came  near  me  in  passing. 
Yet  it  was  better  that  way.     Before  one  word  of  kind 
ness,  I  might  not  have  had  the  strength  to  keep  silent. 
And  as  I  stood  there,  drawn  back  into  a  dark  corner, 
alone  and  shunned,  I  knew  that  this  too  was  expiation 
I  had  not  thought  of  it  in  that  light  before. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

ONE    SUNDAY    MORNING    IN    CHURCH 

TO  THE  farthest  corner  of  the  ruined  chapel,  back 
against  the  rear  wall,  I  took  myself.  All  in  the 
fore  part  of  the  basilica,  whether  throwing  tip  bags  of 
sand  against  the  ponderous  oaken  doors,  or  sorting 
cannon  balls  on  the  roof  platform  above,  were  my  own 
fellow  countrymen,  yet  I  was  as  much  alone  as  on  that 
dreary  night  when  I  had  stolen  up  the  river  in  a  skiff, 
and  alone  I  had  the  same  crushing  problem  before  me, 
which  was  to  get  through  the  Mexican  lines.  My  former 
comrades  had  their  own  problem  to  solve,  a  very  dif- 
ferent problem,  since  there  was  no  hope  in  it  whatever. 
Mine  looked  to  escape,  while  they  no  longer  had  sym- 
pathy with  even  the  chance  of  escape.  Theirs  was  to 
spend  themselves  to  the  last  breath,  and  make  even 
this  last  breath  of  each  man  of  the  one  hundred  and 
eighty  count  for  yet  one  dead  Mexican  the  more.  And 
then,  when  it  came  to  the  very  last  man  of  the  garrison, 
he  was  to  achieve  the  supreme  expenditure. 

"When  there  shall  be  just  one  of  us  left,"  I  heard 
Travis  tell  them,  "this  last  one  will  hurry  with  a  torch 
to  the  powder  magazine  and " 

"And  then  go  rip-roarous  ahead!"  cried  my  Colonel 
Malaprop.  "Cook  'em  to  a  cracklin'!"  I  think  there 
were  those  who  shuddered.  The  brave  humour  died  in 
the  old  hunter's  eyes,  and  gravity,  reverence,  sobered 
his  angular  features.  "You-all  know,"  he  said,  "that 
the  eye  of  the  Almighty  air  on  us." 

I  heard  in  poignant  longing.  These  Texans  were 

321 


322  THE  LONE  STAR 

arranging  to  divide  a  sum  of  glory  that  does  not  come 
to  men  in  ages,  and  one  "counted  heroes  where  he 
counted  men."  Again  Davy  Crockett  was  speaking, 
and  again  with  that  awe  in  his  voice,  as  though  he  were 
groping  along  an  unfamiliar  trail.  "Well,  as  /  rec'lect, 
mos'  men  git  remembered  fur  the  way  they  died,  and 
not  as  they  lived.  You  kin  sling  out  a  package  o'  glory 
on  the  counter  'longside  an  obscure  life  6'  rec — rectitude, 
and  I  wisht  I  may  be  shot  if  I  wouldn't  rather  be  a 
nigger's  coon  dog  in  the  cane-brake  than  tote  home  that 
thar  last  article  by  pref'rence.  Now  then,"  he  added,  in 
the  quaint,  half-sheepish  way  he  had  of  twisting  out  of 
a  solemn  discourse,  "  jus'  one  more  nip  o'  the  ardent." 

But  as  to  either  of  those  two  packages  in  the  emporium 
of  Fate,  how  cruelly  exorbitant  is  the  grim  One  behind 
the  counter  when  we  come  to  buy !  More  often  we  falter, 
and  end  by  asking  for  something  else,  a  toy,  a  cap  and 
bells,  sacks  of  gold,  a  black  bottle.  But  my  superb 
Texans  there  were  rollicking  spendthrifts.  They  had 
the  price  to  pay,  and  the  storekeeper  would  give  them 
the  chance.  I  was  only  the  beggar  watching  them  with 
nose  glued  to  the  window,  and  eyes  of  greed  and  envy. 
Theirs  was  the  chance,  mine  the  chance  lost,  and  I  was 
filled  with  bitterness  against  the  exasperating  fate  that 
denied  me  my  share.  Thus  did  the  cool  and  matter-of- 
fact  arrangements  of  these  men  on  the  heights  of  sub- 
limity lift  my  timid,  death-fearing  soul  there  too,  and 
in  the  fervour  of  longing  to  give  my  body  to  the  points 
of  bayonets,  I  cursed  every  fateful  circumstance.  How 
I  hated  Gritton!  Gritton  and  his  villainous  intrigues! 
And,  God  forgive  me,  I  all  but  hated  Nan,  for  she  was 
the  cause. 

In  my  dark  corner  I  loaded  my  rifle,  the  rifle  borrowed 
from  the  extra  supply  of  the  garrison,  and  stacked  it 
with  the  other  reserve  guns,  along  with  my  powder-horn 


ONE  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  CHURCH     323 

and  shot-pouch.  At  least  I  would  not  deprive  those 
who  knew  how  to  use  the  implements  of  glory.  Then, 
back  in  the  dark  corner,  I  waited  until  I  might  steal 
away  without  being  seen,  lest  they  should  be  softened 
to  a  last  word  of  farewell.  That,  I  knew,  would  be  added 
pain. 

It  was  nearer  morning  than  midnight  when  the  old 
church  quieted  down  at  last,  and  the  garrison  had  settled 
to  the  silence  of  guard  duty  on  the  walls.  Then  I  ven- 
tured the  first  step  in  the  only  plan  I  could  figure  out. 
This  was  to  climb  the  rear  wall,  which,  as  I  have  said, 
had  fallen  partly  in  ruins  at  the  top.  But  even  so,  the 
wall  was  still  fifteen  or  eighteen  feet  high,  and  I  brought 
the  ladder  from  the  front  end  of  the  church.  The  sky 
had  cleared,  and  only  the  stars  saw  me  as  I  climbed 
toward  them.  On  the  top  I  squirmed  round  until  I  lay 
along  the  crumbling  thickness  of  wall.  I  meant  to  twist 
myself  over  the  edge  on  the  outside  until  I  hung  by  the 
length  of  my  arms,  and  then  to  drop  to  the  soft  bank  of 
the  old  ditch  that  flowed  behind  the  Alamo.  To  creep 
along  the  ditch  southward,  to  pass  through  the  lines, 
and  reach  Seguin's,  where  Nan  was,  these  were  future 
degrees  in  the  problem.  But  dropping  from  the  wall 
must  come  first.  I  was  pushing  myself  over  inch  by 
inch,  and  my  feet  were  in  space,  and  I  was  poised  at  my 
waist  band  on  the  edge,  when  over  in  the  chaparral 
behind  me  there  grew  a  rustling  sound  not  made  by  the 
wind. 

I  scrambled  instantly  back  on  the  wall  to  take  another 
look  abroad.  The  open  space  behind  the  ditch,  once  the 
cultivated  lands  of  the  old  mission,  seemed  a  ghostly 
expanse  under  the  stars,  as  silent  and  lifeless  as  before. 
Yet  off  on  the  black  wooded  swell  of  the  prairie,  there 
still  came  that  rustling  sound.  General  Cos,  the  Per- 
fect Cuss  of  the  broken  parole,  we  knew  to  be  encamped 


324  THE  LONE  STAR 

over  there,  and  yesterday  large  forces  of  infantry  and 
cavalry  had  reinforced  his  batteries.  I  looked  more 
sharply,  and  the  vague  sound  grew,  and  after  a  little  the 
wooded  hill  seemed  to  spread  its  dark  blot  over  the 
ghostly  expanse,  until  one  thought  the  entire  chaparral 
was  moving  in  the  night  like  a  sheet  of  shadow.  It  was 
flooding  nearer,  too;  and  then,  in  the  moving  shadow, 
I  detected  faint,  hair-like  gleams  of  steel — bayonets! 
I  was  too  late.  Our  men  over  on  the  monastery  walls 
began  calling  hoarsely  to  one  another,  and  there  were 
padded  footfalls  across  the  rectangle  yard,  and  then  a 
spark  as  a  gunner  on  the  church  roof  lighted  his  torch. 
They  too  had  seen,  and  this  rousing  of  the  garrison  was 
to  me  like  the  deep  taking  of  breath  for  a  blow. 

I  should  have  crossed  the  line  that  Travis  drew  the 
night  before,  for  now  I  must  go  back  to  them  after  all. 
Yet  in  their  eyes  I  should  be  a  coward  no  less,  since  I 
had  tried  to  escape,  and  failed.  Nevertheless  there  was 
balm  laid  over  raw  torture  in  the  knowledge  that  choice 
was  taken  from  me,  and  that  I  was  to  have  my  place 
among  them.  Almost  joyfully  I  reached  with  my  foot 
for  the  top  round  of  the  ladder.  But  my  foot  groped 
in  space.  The  ladder  was  gone.  Turning,  and  looking 
down,  I  saw  two  of  our  men  restoring  it  against  the  edge 
of  the  roof  at  the  other  end  of  the  church.  I  opened  my 
mouth  to  call  to  them,  then  remembered  that  I  might 
save  them  the  trouble  since  I  could  crawl  up  the  broken 
rear  wall  and  thus  around  by  either  side  wall  to  the 
battery  platform  in  front.  But  fatality  would  have  it 
that  I  chose  the  inner  side  wall,  that  on  the  north  and 
next  to  the  rectangle,  instead  of  the  outer  one,  that  on 
the  south.  Otherwise  my  name  would  now  be  engraved 
among  the  heroes.  What  I  mean  is  simply  this:  when 
I  had  made  nearly  half  the  distance  along  the  north 
wall,  and  a  few  yards  more  would  have  brought  me 


ONE  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  CHURCH     325 

among  my  comrades  on  the  roof  ahead,  I  discovered 
what  I  should  have  remembered,  that  the  old  wall  had 
crumbled  away  to  the  depth  of  ten  feet  or  more,  as 
though  a  jagged  wedge  had  been  blasted  out.  I  could 
not  leap  the  space,  nor  climb  down  and  then  up.  But 
there  was  a  curved  arch  of  masonry  that  had  once  sup- 
ported the  roof,  and  this  bridged  the  chasm  across  to  the 
other  wall.  Instead  of  going  all  the  way  round  by  the 
rear  wall,  I  decided  to  go  to  the  south  wall  over  the 
arched  bridge. 

It  was  just  here  that  fatality  swung  her  mace  in  the 
dark,  and  under  the  blow  I  went  no  farther.  In  other 
words,  as  I  crept  on  my  knees,  and  was  nearly  half-way 
across,  I  lurched  forward  into  a  slight  depression  in  the 
masonry,  and  went  flat  on  my  face.  Reaching  out  my 
hands  sideways,  I  found  that  here  my  bridge  was  hollow 
like  a  trough.  I  had  to  raise  my  head  to  see  the  dim 
shadows  of  our  men  on  the  roof  platform.  And,  even  if 
it  were  broad  daylight,  and  they  were  Mexicans  on  the 
platform  seeking  out  a  last  victim,  they  could  not  see 
me;  that  is,  unless  they  approached  along  the  side  wall 
as  far  as  the  arch.  But  if  they  did  that — well,  they 
would  hack  me  to  pieces  in  the  glee  of  finding  at  least 
one  American  who  was  a  skulker,  who  was  weak  mortal 
flesh  like  themselves.  The  thought  was  a  purely  idle 
one  at  first.  But  straightway  Nan  flashed  into  my  mind. 
If  this  should  be  a  chance.  .  .  . 

And  there  I  had  the  decision  to  go  through  all  over 
again.  But  decision  was  more  hideous  now  even  than 
before.  The  chance  was  a  pitifully  slender  one;  while 
the  other  way,  I  could  take  my  part  below,  I  would 
make  myself  count,  I  would  not  then  die  like  a  rat 
dragged  from  his  hole.  But  there  was  Nan.  ...  I 
pushed  the  decision  from  me.  I  am  afraid  that  I  did 
not  decide  at  all.  I  lay  where  I  was,  postponing  it. 


326  THE  LONE  STAR 

There  was  yet  time.  And  meanwhile  I  scooped  up  the 
mortar  dust  with  my  hands,  and  covered  myself,  to  see — 
well,  just  to  see  how  snugly  I  might  be  hidden. 

The  stars  had  faded  out,  and  for  the  moment  the 
night  was  of  the  blackest,  to  glorify  by  contrast  the  near 
dawn  of  Sunday  morning.  I  sat  up  in  my  trough,  but 
I  could  see  nothing  of  the  dark  waves  that  I  knew  to  be 
flooding  down  upon  us  from  every  surrounding  height. 
Torches  in  the  church  under  me  glowed  hazily,  and 
another  flamed  among  our  gunners  behind  the  parapet 
on  the  church  roof.  A  vague  light  told  of  the  same 
watchfulness  on  the  roof  of  the  tower  room,  but  the  rect- 
angle was  dark  and  silent,  and  the  big  walled-in  plaza  of 
the  mission  also,  and  on  all  sides  around  the  walls  the 
black  night  thickened.  One  had  to  goad  imagination  to 
realise  that  space  out  there  was  peopled  by  a  horde  of 
warriors.  Only  across  the  river,  between  us  and  the 
town,  where  a  restless  lantern  light  flickered  and  van- 
ished, and  flickered  and  vanished  again,  was  there  token 
that  the  world  could  be  inhabited  at  all.  But  Santa 
Ana  must  be  where  that  lantern  was,  booted  and  spurred, 
wetting  his  lips  thirstily,  and  the  squirrel's  lecherous 
greed  in  his  cold  eyes. 

The  Mexican  host  was  waiting  for  day,  the  little  ship- 
wrecked band  only  for  the  chance  to  strike.  The  night 
melted  gently  to  dull  gray.  A  bulging  outline  took 
form  in  mid-air,  the  dome  of  San  Antonio's  church, 
swelling  over  the  flat  roofs  of  the  town.  Above  hung 
a  limp,  rag-like  thing,  and  that  was  the  blood-red  flag. 
Blocks  of  gray,  the  town  itself,  emerged  from  the  slug- 
gish mist.  Nearer,  along  the  river's  bank,  black-capped 
infantry  were  massed  by  regiments,  and  behind  them 
were  helmeted  cavalry  in  a  forest  of  swords,  and  in 
the  rear  a  brilliant  little  group  of  horsemen  on  prancing 
steeds.  Gilt  and  gold  caught  the  light,  and  became 


ONE  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  CHURCH     327 

dazzling  splotches.  The  breast  of  one  among  the  horse- 
men flamed  like  a  sunburst,  and  this  one  was  His  Excel- 
lency, the  President  General-in-Chief.  On  the  north, 
though  farther  off,  and  hardly  more  than  a  blur  of 
shadow  in  the  ground  mist  as  yet,  were  other  halted 
phalanxes.  To  the  east,  back  of  us,  there  they  were 
again,  and  yet  again,  to  the  south.  The  rim  of  the  cart 
wheel  had  shrunk  closer  in  during  the  night.  Now  only 
the  spokes  were  lacking. 

All  this  I  saw  in  the  first  streak  of  day,  and  hardly 
then  before  the  President's  trumpeter  sounded  the 
charge,  and  the  shadowed  masses  broke  into  columns, 
and  came  rolling  nearer  and  nearer  like  a  torrential  wave. 
A  regimental  band  across  the  river  burst  forth  with  the 
piercing  "Deguello,"  the  cutthroat  inspiration  to  blood- 
shed, and  with  the  "Deguello"  we  heard  the  first  mur- 
muring of  the  wave,  deepening  to  a  roar  as  it  came. 
Hoarse  cries  broke  over  the  volume  of  sound.  "  Kill  the 
robbers  of  our  country! " — "Kill  the  rebels! " — "Kill  the 
land  pirates!" — "Kill  the  foreigners!"  The  invariable 
Word  was  "Kill,  kill,  kill!"  Then  a  cannon's  thunder 
underlined  the  sentiment.  The  cannon  was  one  of  our 
own,  stationed  in  a  breach  of  the  plaza  wall  on  the  north. 
The  first  spoke  of  the  wheel  had  centred  on  this  weak 
spot  in  the  hub.  The  plaza  of  the  mission  was  a  vast 
area,  and  its  walls  had  no  angles,  so  that  the  few  Texans 
there  had  barely  fired  a  second  time  before  the  Mexicans 
were  swarming  up  under  the  shelter  of  the  wall  and 
pouring  through  the  breach.  I  could  see  the  handful 
of  Texans  over  there  fire  their  rifles  point  blank,  then 
club  and  swing  them,  laying  the  first  black  crest  of  the 
wave  to  their  ankles,  and  then,  man  by  man,  sink  out 
of  sight  under  the  flood.  Almost  the  first  to  vanish, 
and  also  among  the  foremost  to  breast  the  tide,  was  a 
slim  young  fellow  as  active  as  a  cat.  He  plied  a  sword, 


328  THE  LONE  STAR 

and  with  it  mowed  a  circle  around  him,  and  in  this  space 
I  saw  him  through  the  powder  smoke  droop  little  by 
little  until  he  fell  to  his  knees.  Then  a  Mexican,  belted 
in  the  green  sash  of  a  general,  rushed  on  him  with  drawn 
sabre.  But  the  dying  Texan  caught  at  the  blade, 
wrenched  it  free,  and  ran  the  Mexican  through.  Both 
went  down  at  the  same  time.  The  Texan  was  Will 
Travis. 

The  plaza  was  taken,  and  the  assailants  pouring  in, 
turned  our  own  cannon  against  the  monastery.  But 
for  our  people  on  the  tower  room  and  behind  sand  bags 
on  the  monastery  roof,  they  were  easy  slaughter,  and 
the  Texans  let  forth  an  unlovely  yell  as  they  set  to.  The 
captured  gun  was  cleared  and  scores  of  Mexicans  surged 
upon  it  again  over  their  dead.  Bodies  strewed  the 
ground  around  more  thickly,  until  they  rose  to  the 
height  of  the  cannon,  and  had  to  be  dragged  from  before 
the  muzzle  as  yet  others  of  the  living  struggled  to  reload. 
At  last  the  Mexicans  in  the  plaza  turned  to  run,  but  ran 
on  the  swoids  of  their  own  cavalry.  Mounted  officers 
beat  them  frantically,  and  turned  them  to  it  again. 

Other  columns  were  being  hurled  against  the  rectangle 
on  the  north  and  rear  as  well,  and  being  likewise  rolled 
back  staggering  upon  their  cavalry,  even  before  they 
might  place  their  ladders.  A  seething  fury  of  smoke 
hid  our  riflemen  on  the  walls,  so  that  on  three  sides  the 
rectangle  seemed  about  to  burst  in  flames.  Simul- 
taneously the  engulfing  wave  swept  down  upon  the 
church  itself.  With  the  taking  of  the  plaza,  Santa  Ana's 
bugle  sounded  again  and  the  massed  regiments  changed 
to  rushing  motion.  Until  fairly  under  the  church  doors, 
they  had.  the  shelter  of  the  long  plaza  wall.  We  could 
hear  the  swift  tread  of  many  feet,  and  then  they  were 
at  the  stockade.  A  regiment  dashing  across  the  open 
from  the  south,  though  falling  as  they  ran,  joined  them 


ONE  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  CHURCH     329 

in  the  same  instant.  Together  they  were  a  small  army, 
confident  in  their  numbers,  exultant  in  their  terrific 
momentum.  But  the  stockade  prolonged  the  plaza  wall 
to  the  front  corner  of  the  church,  and  this  stockade  they 
had  to  pass  through  to  reach  the  church  doors.  And  then, 
the  stockade  bristled  with  cannon.  Also,  the  tower  battery 
commanded  the  stockade  yard,  and  on  the  church  roof 
there  were  more  cannon,  and  such  marksmen  as  Davy 
Crockett  and  Al  Martin.  All  the  cannon,  all  the  rifles, 
leaped  to  uproar.  The  tower  was  lost  in  rolling  smoke, 
and  the  church  parapet  also,  where  the  Texans  under 
the  grimy  tricolour  were  seen  in  glimpses  only,  dim, 
infuriate  silhouettes  of  men,  like  desperate  firemen  on  a 
crumbling  wall.  The  stockade  and  the  yard  within  I 
could  not  see  at  all,  though  I  got  excitedly  to  my  feet 
and  stretched  my  neck,  but  the  smoke  was  rising  thicker 
and  thicker  from  below,  and  our  cannon  down  there  were 
thundering,  and  the  screeching  horde  of  Mexicans  were 
firing  their  old  escopetas  until  the  din  was  just  compact 
hellishness.  But  after  a  little  there  were  breaks  in  the 
deafening  racket,  and  across  the  river,  faintly  heard, 
the  regimental  band  struck  up  the  diana  of  triumph, 
and  Santa  Ana  himself  with  his  pompous  staff  came 
galloping  over  the  bridge.  Was  the  stockade  taken 
then?  Had  the  Alamo  fallen?  The  jagged  gaps  in  the 
frantic  clamour  below  were  longer  now.  It  must  be 
so. 

But  midway  on  the  bridge  Santa  Ana  jerked  his  horse 
to  his  haunches.  The  blatant  triumph  in  the  man's 
bearing  went  limp  in  this  gesture  of  fear.  He  swung 
his  horse,  and  clattered  back  across  the  river.  Close 
behind  him,  almost  running  him  down,  were  his  own 
routed  cavalry.  The  cavalry  were  being  driven  by  the 
sheer  mass  of  stricken  infantry.  Once  out  of  range, 
the  President  General-in-Chief  turned  on  them,  struck 


33o  THE  LONE  STAR 

the  nearest  with  the  flat  of  his  sword,  tore  off  the  epau- 
lettes of  a  dragoon  colonel,  cursed  them,  raged  like  a 
madman.  His  staff  laboured  likewise.  So  did  the 
cavalry  officers.  And  so,  at  last,  did  the  cavalry,  and 
with  sabres  changed  to  scourges,  they  lashed  back  the 
stampeded  infantry  masses,  herded  them  back  along  the 
plaza  wall  like  cattle  to  the  slaughter  pens.  Behind 
them  all,  erect  on  his  white  stallion,  like  a  monument  to 
martial  wrath,  the  President  General-in-Chief  waved 
them  angrily  to  the  charge. 

"And  too  low  mean,"  roared  Crockett,  leaping  on  the 
parapet  and  shaking  his  fist  at  the  cautious  Napoleon 
of  the  West,  "  and  too  low  mean  to  swab  hell's  kitchen! " 

Crockett  had  had  a  moment's  hope  of  big  game,  and 
his  slow  temper  was  rising  fast. 

' '  Look  I     The  monastery !     Look,  look ! ' '  cried  Martin. 

There  were  Mexicans  already  on  the  monastery's  long 
flat  roof.  They  were  climbing  up  ladders  from  the 
plaza  as  fast  as  they  were  knocked  down,  and  grappling 
hand  to  hand  with,  the  Texans,  eight  or  ten  or  even 
twenty  Mexicans  to  one  Texan.  Prodded  by  officers 
they  leaped  over  into  the  rectangle  itself,  and  were 
knifed  as  they  came.  Others  charged  along  the  mon- 
astery roof  toward  the  tower,  and  the  tower  batteries 
were  levelling  them  at  point  blank  range.  But  the 
plaza  below  swarmed  with  Mexicans,  and  those  not 
climbing  the  ladders  were  firing  at  the  tower. 

"God  A'mighty,  boys,"  yelled  Martin,  "turn  the 
cannon  on  'em!  Quick  now!  Let  the  stockade  go 
for  a  minute!" 

But  the  stockade  guns  also  were  roaring  once  more. 
The  wave  had  swept  on  them  down  there  a  second  time, 
and  I  could  picture  muskets  swinging  on  skulls  across 
the  cedar  logs,  the  scene  over  again  like  that  when 
Travis  fell. 


ONE  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  CHURCH     331 

The  monastery  and  rectangle  had  been  as  hotly  pressed 
from  the  first,  and  now  were  more  so.  The  torrent  was 
breaking  over  on  every  side.  Ends  of  ladders  rose  like 
spikes  against  the  rectangle's  north  and  rear  walls,  and 
heads  in  high  black-glazed  caps  were  constantly  bobbing 
up,  yet  as  constantly — almost  as  constantly — vanishing, 
as  though  mowed  by  a  scythe.  The  Texans  behind  their 
sacks  of  earth  on  the  walls  were  firing  as  fast  as  they 
could  reload,  but  more  and  more,  as  the  black-capped 
heads  multiplied,  they  had  to  club  their  rifles.  The 
bodies  must  have  been  heaped  high  around  the  ladders, 
and  once,  and  yet  another  time,  the  assailants  staggered 
back  against  the  cavalry  sabres.  But  they  were  rounded 
up,  prodded,  and  beaten  to  it  again,  like  hounds  to  the 
lair  of  a  wounded  lion.  So  again  they  came  pouring 
up  the  ladders,  and  again  the  tawny  faces  began  to  drop 
back  out  of  sight,  some  frozen  in  a  horrible  grimace, 
others  human  faces  no  longer,  but  raw  flesh  and  spurting 
blood.  Here  and  there  a  Mexican  rose  as  high  as  his 
waist,  or  got  even  to  his  knees,  before  he  hurtled  back- 
ward. At  last  one  jumped  inside  the  rectangle,  and 
was  instantly  brained.  Another  followed,  and  lived 
to  gain  his  feet.  A  third  lasted  long  enough  to  close  in 
with  the  nearest  Texan.  Four  more  tumbled  headlong 
after  him,  and  before  these  could  be  despatched  there 
were  groups  of  five  or  six  dropping  over  from  twenty 
different  places  along  the  two  walls.  They  were  also 
leaping  in  from  the  monastery  roof.  The  defenders 
abandoned  the  walls,  and  threw  themselves  on  the 
increasing  pack  in  the  rectangle.  They  rushed  to  a 
howitzer  loaded  with  grape,  and  turned  it  full  on  the 
Mexicans  there. 

"To  the  monastery!"  shouted  one  Texan.  I  recog- 
nised the  voice  of  Bonham. 

Step  by  step  they  gave  way,  littering  the  ground  with 


332  THE  LONE  STAR 

Mexicans,  and  guiding  their  backward  course  to  the 
door  of  the  monastery's  long  room.  They  were  a  piti- 
fully meagre  handful  of  neighbours,  of  men  i  knew, 
against  a  uniformed  mass.  Figures  yellow-clad  in  deer- 
skin, or  dull-gray  in  homespun,  they  were  individuals, 
each  one  of  them.  The  mass  was  a  destroying  force, 
incidentally  dark  bluish  in  colour,  yet  a  sinister  power 
only,  as  impersonal  as  an  avalanche. 

Possibly  one  half  the  Texans  in  the  rectangle,  instead 
of  keeping  on  to  the  monastery,  made  abruptly  for  the 
passage  through  the  side  wall  into  the  church.  I  could 
hear  their  muffled  shouts,  down  in  the  monks'  burial 
crypt  as  they  crowded  in  there.  They  were  pushing  the 
door  tight,  and  heaping  bags  of  sand  against  it. 

Out  in  the  rectangle  the  other  Texans  were  pressed 
hard  on  three  sides,  while  the  Mexicans  on  the  monastery 
roof  shot  them  from  above.  But  they  reached  the  door 
of  the  long  room  at  last,  and  slowly  backed  within — 
many  sinking  in  their  tracks  as  the  enemy  on  the  roof 
fired  down  upon  their  heads — then  by  main  force  pushed 
the  door  to  against  the  tide.  They  had  shut  themselves 
from  the  world,  and  I  thought  of  a  man  slipping  into 
his  coffin,  and  drawing  the  lid  after  him. 

Martin's  battery  and  Crockett's  riflemen  now  turned 
their  fire  on  the  Mexicans  in  the  rectangle.  But  those 
Texans  on  the  tower  no  longer  had  time  even  to  swab 
their  pieces,  for  the  destroying  mass  was  sweeping  over 
them  from  the  monastery  roof,  and  there  again  it  was 
the  episode  of  clubbed  rifles  so  long  as  a  Texan  remained. 
Down  in  the  long  room,  however,  Bonham  and  his  men 
had  a  moment's  respite,  at  least  enough  to  charge  their 
weapons,  and  the  moment  after  they  were  firing  through 
Windows  and  the  loopholes  of  their  door.  Mexicans 
driving  forward  with  crowbars  doubled  on  themselves 
and  fell  before  they  could  strike.  Officers  used  the  flat 


ONE  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  CHURCH     333 

of  their  swords,  forced  the  living  to  snatch  up  the  crow- 
bars again,  and  again  the  catapults  were  checked  midway. 
All  the  time  lead  and  shell  from  the  church  bored 
down  into  them,  and  here  and  there  scooped  out  a  gaping 
hole  in  the  turbulent  surface  of  heads.  But  the  chasm 
was  flooded  instantly,  and  besides,  the  Mexicans  were 
still  pouring  over  the  rectangle  walls,  like  a  bluish  stream 
over  a  dam.  Also  they  had  captured  the  tower  room, 
had  turned  the  cannon  there  on  the  church,  as  well  as 
cannon  of  their  own  in  the  plaza,  so  that  the  church 
battery  was  being  gradually  silenced.  After  recoiling 
repeatedly,  the  Mexicans  in  the  area  could  now  order 
their  charge.  Fully  twenty  of  them  with  axes  and  crow- 
bars rushed  upon  the  door.  The  volley  from  within 
curtained  the  door  in  smoke,  but  there  were  yet  a  few 
assailants  who  reached  the  mark.  The  door  fell  under 
their  blows,  and  the  Texans  suddenly  exposed  inside 
pistolled  them  instantly.  Other  Texans  behind  shot 
over  the  heads  of  their  comrades,  and  yet  others,  having 
reloaded,  took  their  places.  The  Mexican  corpses  in 
the  doorway  served  for  a  breastwork.  The  assailants 
loaded  the  rectangle  howitzer,  dragged  it  before  the  door, 
and  fired.  The  discharge  tunnelled  a  passage  through 
the  bodies  into  the  room.  With  bayonets  fixed  the 
Mexicans  rushed  into  this  passage  like  a  crowd  through 
a  gate  that  is  abruptly  opened.  With  them  they 
dragged  the  howitzer.  The  fighting  continued  inside. 
I  could  hear  the  dull  fall  of  many  blows,  the  snarling 
roar  of  many  voices,  and  after  a  little,  the  smothered 
report  of  the  howitzer.  They  had  fired  it  in  the  room 
against  the  Texans,  huddled  possibly  at  the  farthest 
corner.  A  few  more  cries,  a  few  more  pistol  shots,  a 
Texan  oath,  and  the  muffled  roar  died  away  altogether. 
Through  the  smoke  the  Mexicans  began  coming  out, 
those  of  them  who  were  left. 


334  THE  LONE  STAR 

X 

In  my  trough  on  the  masonry  arch  I  straightened 
tensely,  face  downward.  My  knuckles  were  screwed 
fiercely  against  my  cheeks,  my  nails  fleshed  in  my  hands, 
and  lying  there  so  high  with  naught  human  between 
myself  and  the  bright  sun,  I  commenced  to  sob,  mutely, 
tearlessly.  My  soul  was  thirsting  for  something  I 
could  not  understand.  In  all  life,  in  all  death,  what 
could  explain  this  manner  in  which  life  and  death  met? 
It  was  not  a  thing  for  sanity  to  dwell  upon,  and  yet, 
lying  there,  and  forced  to  see  and  hear,  I  ... 

A  terrific  explosion  jerked  up  my  knees  under  me. 
The  explosion  seemed  to  come  from  under  the  church, 
though  to  one  side.  I  raised  my  head.  The  Mexicans 
were  howling  around  the  little  door  in  the  side  wall 
of  the  church.  Their  yells  rose  in  hollow  volume  from 
the  monks'  burial  ground.  "Ai,  kill  them!  Kill  the 
foreigners!  Kill  them!"  And  then  the  Texan  oaths: 
"Do  it  then,  dam'  ye!  Oh,  you  skunks,  do  it!"  The 
Mexicans  had  blown  open  the  side  door,  and  that  was 
the  explosion  I  had  heard.  Everywhere  else  they  had 
exterminated  all  life  in  the  Alamo,  and  now  only  the 
church  remained. 

Below  me  I  saw  our  men  darting  into  the  church  from 
the  cave-like  rooms,  snatch  up  an  extra  rifle,  and  hurry 
back  again  to  the  killing.  The  Mexicans  were  not 
getting  in  that  narrow  door  very  easily,  even  though 
they  had  rolled  up  the  howitzer.  But  they  were  at  the 
heavy  front  doors  also,  bombarding  them  with  the 
cannon  just  captured  at  the  stockade,  and  all  the  time 
Crockett  and  Martin  and  the  other  men  on  the  church 
roof  were  firing  down  into  them.  But  those  Texans  on  the 
platform  were  themselves  staggering  under  a  triple  cross 
fire,  from  the  plaza,  from  the  tower,  from  the  rectangle. 
Their  parapet  had  gone  partly  down  before  cannon  balls, 
and  their  own  heavy  shot  was  exhausted.  Martin  and 


ONE  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  CHURCH     335 

Cottle  were  cramming  slugs  and  scrap  iron  into  the 
muzzle  of  our  old  six-pounder,  but  the  rest  of  the  battery 
was  silenced  for  good.  Crockett  and  the  others  had  only 
their  rifles  left. 

Above  the  din  of  blows,  the  popping  of  muskets,  the 
vengeful  clamour  of  striving  men,  and  in  between  the 
deafening  explosions  of  cannon,  there  rose  to  my 
ears  a  ridiculous  note.  It  was  the  indignant  bark- 
ing of  a  very  small  dog.  I  looked  down  into  the 
church,  and  there  he  was,  the  fuzzy  little  playmate 
of  Lieutenant  Dickinson's  little  girl.  He  had  run 
from  the  battling  confusion  in  the  monks'  crypt 
through  the  sacristy  and  out  into  the  church.  The 
powder  smoke  already  floating  lazily  from  the  cave-like 
inferno  had  half-choked  him,  and  he  had  had  great 
trouble  to  dodge  the  feetof  ourmenrushingbackand  forth. 
But  most,  I  think,  he  objected  to  the  noise,  the  all- 
pervading  noise  that  would  not  abate  at  his  shrill  defiance. 
Jove  of  old  was  not  here  to  thunder  protest,  and  all 
alone  the  valiant  little  animal  simply  barked  it.  Pos- 
sibly the  ridiculous  note  was  not  so  ridiculous,  after  all. 

The  dog  stopped,  and  looked  back  with  an  anxious 
yelp.  Why  were  they  not  following?  At  once  there 
appeared  the  little  girl  herself,  in  her  father's  arms,  and 
close  behind,  her  mother  and  her  mother's  sister — a 
group  of  stricken  haste,  another  Lot  and  his  family 
fleeing  from  destruction.  Dickinson  had  placed  them 
in  the  sacristy,  but  the  sacristy  was  our  powder  magazine, 
and  filling  now  with  smoke.  From  the  crypt  the  Mex- 
icans were  pushing  to  the  sacristy  inch  by  inch,  and  it 
was  no  longer  a  refuge  for  women  and  a  child.  But 
where  next?  God  in  Heaven,  where  next?  Never  on 
a  human  face  have  I  beheld  such  agony  as  when  Dickin- 
son paused,  undecided,  and  looked  wildly  around  him. 
They  had  just  left  the  fury  of  wolves.  But  ahead  the 


336  THE  LONE  STAR 

bombardment  was  already  splintering  the  heavy  oaken 
doors.  Yet  ahead  he  took  them,  holding  close  to  the 
wall,  and  gained  the  small  vaulted  room  to  the  left  of 
the  entrance,  just  opposite  the  baptistry  where  Bowie 
lay.  The  parting  I  could  not  see,  but  I  knew  what  it 
must  have  been  from  the  poor  lieutenant's  face,  as  he 
came  out  alone.  Yet  with  his  first  step  back  to  duty, 
his  wife  ran  out  and  clung  to  him.  By  strength  she 
tried  to  hold  him,  and  draw  him  into  the  vaulted  room. 
But  seeing  that  he  must  and  would  leave  her,  she  began 
hurrying  him  on  his  way,  yet  clinging  as  ever  at  his  side. 
The  man  wavered,  not  knowing  how  he  might  force  her 
back  from  his  own  death.  He  looked  down.  His  little 
girl  was  hugging  him  around  one  knee.  Then  he  found 
a  way — the  cruellest  and  the  only  way.  He  caught  up 
the  child  and  placed  her  in  the  mother's  arms,  his  own 
arms  for  a  heart's  beat  enclosing  them  both.  An  instant 
later  he  was  gone,  vanishing  in  the  dark  sacristy.  The 
mother  stayed  with  the  child. 

The  muffled  uproar  was  rising  to  sharper  clashes, 
gaining  ground  from  crypt  to  sacristy.  The  Texans 
were  falling  back  into  the  church,  and  not  always  to 
reload.  They  were  being  pushed  back.  All  were  faint. 
After  two  weeks  of  incessant  alarms,  this  last  day  had 
found  them  exhausted  quite.  One  gasping  man  reeled 
out  of  the  dense  smoke,  and  sat  himself  down  on 
the  floor.  With  his  finger  he  scraped  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  temples,  his  neck,  and  his  bared  hairy 
chest.  He  stayed  to  breathe  a  moment  longer,  after 
which  he  bit  off  a  chew  of  tobacco,  caught  up  his 
rifle,  and  went  back  to  work.  Others  staggered  and 
fell  who  did  not  rise  again,  and  these  were  trampled 
upon  by  yet  others.  Nearly  all  were  bleeding.  Often 
an  arm  hung  limp,  but  the  other  arm,  whether  left  or 
right,  was  lengthened  by  a  clubbed  pistol,  a  knife,  or  a 


ONE  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  CHURCH     337 

hatchet,  and  beating  down  on  heads  in  front.  Inch  by 
inch,  almost  imperceptibly,  the  sacristy  disgorged  them, 
and  after  them  appeared  the  first  swart  faces  of  the 
Mexicans,  pushing  slowly  into  the  body  of  the  church, 
directly  under  me,  all  the  while  muttering  like  an 
incensed  mob,  and  stabbing  furiously  with  bayonets. 

While  there  was  yet  time,  one  among  our  men  lighted 
a  torch,  and  thrust  it  in  a  crack  between  the  stones  of 
the  wall  above  his  head.  There  the  thing  blazed  peace- 
fully and  harmlessly  over  the  snarling  pack,  and  there 
it  would  be  ready  to  the  hands  of  the  very  last  Texan, 
when  the  moment  should  come  to  blow  up  the  Alamo. 

Under  me  the  Texans,  not  forty  of  them  all  told,  v;  "re 
giving  way  toward  the  front  of  the  church,  but  there 
they  were  suddenly  taken  in  the  rear  too,  for  the  bom- 
bardment behind  the  heavy  oaken  doors  swelled  to  a 
deafening  climax,  and  the  doors  themselves  crashed 
backward.  The  dense  mass  outside  howled  like  wolves, 
and  in  they  surged,  over  bags  of  earth,  and  over  the 
dying  Texans. 

The  defenders  still  left  backed  to  the  corner  of  the 
church,  in  front  of  Bowie's  door.  There  they  kept  on 
fighting.  Eight  or  ten  Mexicans  were  swept  by  the 
crush  of  their  own  numbers  into  the  vaulted  room 
opposite,  where  Dickinson  had  left  his  family,  and  in 
there  Dickinson  himself  now  rushed  at  the  same  time. 
Useless  as  it  was,  though  senseless  to  that  or  aught  else, 
I  shrieked  a  warning  down  at  them.  But  where  hun- 
dreds were  yelling  and  shrieking,  none  heard  me.  Yet 
I  saw,  first  the  body  of  Dickinson,  spitted  on  bayonets, 
thrown  out  of  the  vaulted  room  like  a  truss  of  hay ;  then 
the  two  women  dragged  out  by  the  hair,  and  the  child 
torn  from  the  arms  of  her  mother;  and  after  that, 
bayonets  lifted.  I  hid  my  eyes,  but  looked  again, 
nevertheless.  A  staff  officer,  to  judge  from  his  dashing 


338  THE  LONE  STAR 

uniform,  had  swept  the  assassins  away,  even  cutting  them 
down,  and  was  thrusting  the  two  women  and  the  child 
back  into  the  vaulted  room.  At  the  door  he  placed 
a  guard,  then  sprang  to  the  front  of  those  encircling 
the  handful  of  Texans  against  the  wall,  where  he  led  the 
wolfish  pack.  I  thought  I  knew  this  Mexican,  and  after 
a  little  I  saw  his  face,  and  recognised  him  as  Colonel 
Almonte,  Santa  Ana's  aide  and  favourite. 

The  cornered  Texans  were  fighting  him  and  his  army 
like  tigers.  Like  tigers — for  I  can  use  no  better  word 
to  picture  the  superb  ferocity  of  that  little  handful. 
Even  the  god-nerved  Trojans  were  often  dazed  by  a 
sense  of  the  hopeless,  and  in  a  funk  would  turn  and  run. 
But  these  other  men  were  Texans,  and  the  Norse 
and  the  Teuton  in  them  must  have  given  them  a  sense, 
not  of  despair,  but  of  a  Valhalla,  the  paradise  of  warriors 
slain.  Again  and  again  the  Mexicans  shrank  from  them 
in  awe,  as  from  demons.  The  Texans  were  piling  up  the 
corpses  around  them  to  the  height  of  a  bulwark,  yet  still 
hammering  down  the  nearest  Mexicans  into  the  heap. 
They  hammered  with  their  clubbed  rifles  as  with  sledges, 
hammered  until  some  were  fainting  from  exhaustion 
and  were  too  weak  to  parry  the  thrusts  of  bayonets. 
Their  hunting  jackets  were  soggy  wet,  and  their  faces 
and  chests  were  running  with  sweat  and  blood.  My 
muscles  strained  to  each  Texan  blow,  and  my  soul,  my 
whole  soul,  was  there,  and  I  was  sobbing,  sobbing 
fiercely.  Now  and  again  a  yellow-clad  figure  went 
down,  often  of  a  neighbour  I  recognised,  and  in  a  flash 
I  saw  a  cabin  far  away  on  the  Guadalupe,  and  the  wife 
made  a  widow  and  the  children  become  orphans  in  this 
very  instant  that  I  gazed  below  me. 

Down  there  all  the  church,  except  at  that  far  corner 
in  front  of  Bowie's  door,  seemed  a  swaying  ebon  pave- 
ment of  black-glazed^caps.  Under  the  haze  of  powder 


ONE  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  CHURCH     339 

smoke  they  were  squirming  like  maggots,  pushing 
always  toward  that  far  corner.  A  half-dozen  Texans 
who  still  remained  on  the  platform  overhead  were  firing 
down  into  them,  and  chubby  Al  Martin  added  one  last 
blast  from  the  six-pounder.  The  shot  rent  a  hole  in 
the  ebon  pavement,  and  spattered  the  walls  with  blood 
and  brains  and  ragged  pieces  of  flesh.  Men  slipped  and 
fell  in  the  ooze  underfoot.  For  the  drawing  of  a  breath 
there  was  absolute  silence,  and  after  that  the  most 
fiendish  outburst  of  rage  I  have  ever  heard.  The 
Mexicans  beat  down  one  another  to  get  to  the  ladder. 
Fully  twenty  gained  the  top,  and  I  saw  Al  Martin 
struck  down  and  his  body  flung  over  the  parapet  on  the 
heads  of  those  outside  the  church.  The  others  around 
the  six-pounder  fared  the  same,  all  except  two. 

One  of  these  two  turned  and  ran.  He  ran  to  the  end 
of  the  platform,  then  along  the  north  side  wall.  Half- 
way he  came  to  the  gap  that  had  stopped  me.  But 
he  faced  about,  let  himself  over  the  edge,  and  slid  to 
the  bottom  of  the  gap.  Then,  even  as  his  pursuers 
reached  the  spot  and  struck  down  at  him,  he  lowered 
himself  by  the  length  of  his  arms,  released  his  grip  on 
the  broken  masonry,  and  dropped  plump  inside  the  church, 
squarely  through  the  black  fighting  caps.  The  torch, 
thrust  in  a  crack  between  the  stones,  was  flaring  just 
over  his  head.  I  knew  now  why  he  had  run,  how  well 
he  had  calculated.  Before  the  Mexicans  nearest  him 
could  interfere,  he  seized  the  torch  and  disappeared 
in  the  sacristy.  Beyond,  in  the  crypt,  was  the  powder 
magazine.  I  had  one  glimpse  of  his  face,  and  his  jaws 
were  set  like  steel.  At  his  heels,  vainly  clutching  at 
him,  were  twenty  Mexicans.  I  held  my  breath,  clenched 
my  own  jaws,  but  I  was  praying  that  he  would  succeed. 
And  the  few  cornered  Texans  yet  fighting  at  Bowie's 
door,  they  would  pray  for  that  too,  if  they  knew.  Almost, 


340  THE  LONE  STAR 

I  thought,  the  explosion  had  come.  By  anticipation 
I  felt  myself  being  lifted,  and  I  wondered  at  just  what 
point  death  would  follow,  whether  in  the  air,  or  on 
striking  the  ground.  The  suspense  was  a  lifetime. 
Then,  at  last,  the  Mexicans  came  back  out  of  the 
sacristy.  Their  faces  were  ghastly,  but  they  were  breathing 
again,  and  their  bayonets  were  dripping. 

The  other  of  the  two  men  on  the  church  roof  who  did 
not  perish  there  was  a  long  wiry  fellow  in  fringed  buck- 
skin. He  was  bareheaded,  and  his  glossy  hair  was 
tossed  and  blown  like  the  mane  of  a  black  stallion. 
With  the  others  on  the  parapet  he  had  stood  against 
the  Mexicans,  and  now  he  alone  stood  against  them. 
"If  for  the  right,  go  ahead!"  It  was  a  kind  of  battle 
cry.  White-heat  wrath  surcharged  his  voice,  yet  even 
then  the  voice  was  rollicking.  "Faith,  ahead  you  go, 
Davy  Crockett!"  The  challenge  swelled  recklessly, 
buoyantly,  and  all  the  while  he  struck,  leaped,  parried, 
struck,  and  struck  again,  with  the  vivid  rapidity  of 
lightning.  He  cleared  his  way  to  the  head  of  the  ladder. 
The  ladder  was  weighted  with  more  Mexicans  climbing 
up.  But  he  swept  them  off  the  top  rung,  off  the  rung 
below,  and  so  descended  rung  by  rung,  as  proud  and 
terrible  as  a  lion  descending  steps  of  marble.  Then, 
at  the  bottom,  as  he  swung  on  the  denser  crush  of  heads, 
his  rifle,  his  adored  Betsy,  broke  at  the  stock.  Instantly 
frenzy  took  the  man.  He  set  forth  one  terrific  howl, 
dashed  the  pieces  at  the  mob,  gripped  his  long  knife 
in  one  hand,  his  tomahawk  in  the  other,  and  became  a 
flail,  a  scourge.  The  Mexicans  crashed  backward  from 
him.  The  nearest  he  cut  down,  and  at  a  bound  he  was 
among  the  cornered  Texans  still  living  and  still  fighting 
in  front  of  Bowie's  door.  These  weary  ones  shook  the 
blood  and  sweat  from  their  eyes,  and  nerved  their 
flagging  blows. 


ONE  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  CHURCH     341 

' '  Go  ahead,  Davy  Crockett !  Go — a — head — Da — vy — 
Crock — ett!"  The  thing  became  a  quick,  rhythmic 
beat,  each  beat  a  flash  of  time,  marked  by  the  hatchet. 
I  saw  steel  thrust,  saw  it  fleshed  in  him,  yet  those 
flaying  arms  still  kept  the  measure.  The  Mexicans  had 
climbed  to  the  roof  again,  and  they  were  shooting  down 
into  the  last  of  the  Texans.  The  scattered  shots  thick- 
ened to  a  volley,  and  when  the  smoke  lifted  there  was 
only  one  yellow-clad  figure  rising  above  the  heaps  of 

corpses.  "Go — a "  A  storm  of  yells  drowned  the 

voice,  the  black  wave  swept  forward,  and  the  lone  figure 
in  yellow  vanished  beneath  the  surface. 

The  door  to  Bowie's  room  Was  cleared  now,  and  the 
Mexicans  leaped  for  it.  tumbling  over  bodies,  slipping 
on  shreds  of  flesh,  and  jamming  themselves  in  the  en- 
trance through  the  thick  walls.  I  could  not  see  inside 
the  baptistry,  or  Bowie  on  his  cot,  but  I  heard  the  report 
of  his  pistols.  After  that  he  must  have  used  his  knife, 
and  no  doubt  he  looked  up  at  them  from  his  bed  with  that 
mocking  smile  that  so  belittled  others.  They  must 
have  paused,  too,  with  the  awed  hate  of  low  creatures 
for  the  great  and  sublime.  I  imagined  so,  at  least, 
from  an  instant's  lull  in  the  snarling  and  snapping.  But 
at  once  the  roar  began  again,  sounding  from  within  the 
room  like  a  pack  of  dogs  that  tear  a  wildcat  among  them. 
Then  it  rose  to  a  shout.  The  Mexicans  inside  pushed 
outward,  the  mass  before  the  door  heaved  backward, 
making  way,  and  the  assailants  struggled  from  the  room, 
holding  their  bayonets  over  their  heads,  and  on  their 
bayonets  the  limp  body  of  a  man.  His  torn  shirt  was 
more  red  than  white,  and  his  blood  was  streaming  down 
the  bayonets.  All  around  the  pack  howled  as  when 
the  hunter  holds  the  slain  quarry  aloft,  and  as  the  poor 
corpse  was  borne  over  the  tossing  sea  of  heads,  the  pack 
fought  and  yelped,  and  every  bayonet  jabbed  at  the 


342  THE  LONE  STAR 

body.     They  reached  the  front  doors  at  last,  and  there 
Jim  Bowie  was  cast  to  the  ground  like  a  dead  rat. 

Outside  a  regimental  band  was  playing  the  "  Deguello." 
Now  the  tune  changed  to  the  diana,  that  jubilant, 
rapid-fire  blare  that  means  the  laurel  wreath.  Santa 
Ana  on  his  white  charger  dashed  up,  and  with  sabre 
gallantly  drawn,  he  leaned  over  and  slashed  at  the 
corpse  of  Jim  Bowie, 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE    MASTER    CRAFTSMAN 

rilHE  rest  of  that  bright  March  Sunday  I  lay  in  my 
A  trough  under  the  sun,  and  from  the  church  below 
the  heavy  odours  of  blood  drying  and  old  powder  smoke 
rose  to  my  nostrils.  Soldiers  mounted  to  the  roof  and 
began  throwing  over  the  corpses.  Often  three  or 
four  Mexicans  would  come  out  on  the  side  wall  for  a 
better  view  of  the  heaps  of  slain  below,  and  talk  among 
themselves  in  awed  tones.  I  was  covered  with  mortar 
dust  as  I  lay  ever  so  rigidly,  yet  had  any  of  these  looked 
sharply  toward  the  arch,  they  must  have  seen  me.  But 
I  was  indifferent.  There  was  too  much  else  to  rack 
the  soul.  There  was  the  gory  aftermath.  The  victors 
became  ghoulish  harvesters.  Wet  with  blood  to  the 
knees,  they  sorted  the  horrid  piles  of  dead.  They 
viciously  stabbed  any  Texan  body  that  still  pulsated 
with  life.  Everywhere  glassy  eyes  looked  up  at  them. 
Soldiery  and  townspeople  thronged  all  day  long  over 
the  old  mission.  In  the  church,  or  outside  at  the  stock- 
ade, or  in  the  plaza  and  rectangle,  on  the  roofs,  or  below 
the  walls,  everywhere  they  had  to  pick  their  steps 
among  the  dead — the  Mexican  dead.  Heaped  up  at 
last,  they  could  be  estimated  as  cordwood.  Every- 
where also  the  wounded  moaned  and  groaned — the 
Mexican  wounded.  Hundreds  of  them,  they  were  being 
hauled  away  to  the  hospitals.  Of  dead  and  wounded 
both,  the  number  was  incredible;  incredible  also  this 
havoc  wrought  by  a  few  incomprehensible  men  of  an 
incomprehensible  race.  The  living  Mexicans  gazed 

343 


344  THE  LONE  STAR 

astounded.  Their  exultation  "was  hushed  in  supersti- 
tious awe.  The  regimental  band  played  the  thrilling 
diana  again  and  again,  but  Santa  Ana's  triumph  was 
palpably  machine-made.  The  never-defeated  victor 
reported  the  American  slain  at  six  hundred,  the  Mexican 
at  sixty.  This  was  only  another  vain  flourish,  like  the 
blare  of  the  trumpets.  Neither  could  belie  the  day's 
humiliation  put  on  his  race. 

During  the  afternoon  the  dead  Texans  were  thrown 
together  and  loaded  into  ox  carts.  They  had  given  the 
Mexicans  the  hardest  fight  in  all  Mexican  history,  and 
now,  though  dead,  they  gave  Mexican  chivalry  a  rare 
chance  on  honour's  side.  But  the  President  General  of 
the  Mexicans  could  squander  no  chivalry  on  heroes  who 
had  cost  him  so  dearly.  Over  in  the  town,  on  a  vacant 
lot,  the  Texan  dead  and  logs  of  wood  were  piled  high  in 
alternating  layers.  Dry  brush  was  heaped  around,  and 
crackling  flames  leaped  up  the  pyre.  But  then,  glory 
can  afford  a  monument  of  ignominy  from  the  enemy. 

When  night  at  last  cloaked  that  day,  I  was  free  to 
move.  But  I  could  not  at  once,  for  my  nerves  and 
muscles  had  stiffened  along  my  bones,  and  it  seemed 
that  the  first  wrenching  effort  would  break  them.  I 
Was  afraid,  too,  that  some  sharper  twinge  of  pain  would 
make  me  groan  aloud.  But  in  time  I  sat  erect,  and 
I  stretched  and  stretched,  caring  for  nothing  in  that 
blessed  relief  to  my  spine.  After  that  I  lay  down  again, 
to  rest  a  moment,  and  in  a  dull  kind  of  apathy  to  wait 
and  see  if  the  Mexicans  would  not  come  up  directly 
with  their  bayonets.  The  Mexicans,  however,  had  left 
no  survivors,  so  they  thought,  and  they  were  worn  out 
besides.  Down  in  the  church  they  were  snoring.  I 
raised  up,  and  stretched  again.  I  wanted  to  do  nothing 
else  for  a  long  time.  Yet  at  once  I  was  squirming  along 
the  masonry  to  the  lower  rear  wall,  and  there  I  twisted 


THE  MASTER  CRAFTSMAN  345 

over  the  edge,  hung  a  moment  by  my  bent  fingers,  and 
let  loose. 

I  fell  on  ground  softened  by  the  ditch's  overflow,  but 
the  cactus  thorns  pierced  through  my  worn  leather 
breeches  to  the  bone.  I  rolled  on  my  back  and  gazed 
upward  at  the  stars,  for  I  was  very  tired.  Next  I  rolled 
myself  into  the  heavier  shadow  of  the  ditch's  bank, 
not  so  much  from  any  animated  sense  of  caution,  but 
to  see  if  I  might  do  it  as  a  feat  of  lazy  sport.  I  looked 
at  the  stars  again,  and  was  dully  curious  if  there  would 
follow  an  alarm  and  prying  bayonets.  Nothing  .hap- 
pened, and  after  a  lapse  of  time  I  roused  enough  enter- 
prise for  the  next  step.  This  meant  creeping  on  south- 
ward through  what  had  recently  been  the  Mexican  lines, 
and  on  farther  to  Seguin's  rancho.  And  there,  had 
Gritton  written  the  truth,  I  should  find  Nan. 

The  squat,  blurred  outline  of  the  old  Mexican  farm- 
house vivified  the  thought  of  Nan,  and  that  thought 
cleared  my  faculties.  For  almost  the  first  time  since  the 
first  shot  of  the  morning's  battle  I  could  hold  my  mind 
to  the  fact  that  there  had  been  something  vital,  some- 
thing preponderantly  vital,  which  had  been  thrust 
upon  me  to  decide;  and  that  because  of  it  I  was  not  now 
a  handful  of  ashes  blown  by  the  wind  with  the  ashes  of 
the  one  hundred  and  eighty  men  who  had  been  my 
comrades  in  the  flesh  and  blood  only  the  night  before. 
My  senses  awakened  despite  the  long  hours  without 
food  or  sleep,  and  I  approached  stealthily  under  the 
cottonwoods  toward  the  house.  There  were  no  signs 
of  pickets,  no  hint  of  military  occupation,  nor  aught  to 
keep  me  from  learning  in  ten  minutes  more  if  Nan  were 
really  there.  I  crawled  beneath  one  of  the  front  win- 
dows. It  was  curtained  with  canvas,  but  there  seemed 
to  be  a  faint  candle  light  in  the  room.  I  reached 
between  the  window  bars  and  tapped  on  the  pane.  No 


346  THE  LONE  STAR 

movement  came  from  within,  and  after  a  while  I  tapped 
again,  and  again  I  waited.  No  movement 

But  there  was  a  sudden  rush  of  air  behind  me,  like 
the  swish  of  ghostly  wings,  and  a  blanket  was  thrown 
over  my  head,  and  an  arm  of  iron  was  belting  it  around 
my  neck.  I  ducked  and  struck  with  my  only  weapon, 
my  fist,  but  through  the  thickness  of  the  cloth  I  got  a 
blow  on  the  head,  after  which  I  was  not  concerned  for 
a  time  with  what  further  happened. 

When  I  did  come  to,  the  sun  was  stabbing  through 
the  cottonwood  leaves  overhead  full  upon  my  face.  I 
had  been  dragged  to  the  grove,  and  left  there.  And 
yet  I  had  not  been  left  there  for  dead,  because  a  little 
wine  bottle  lay  almost  under  my  hand.  The  bottle 
held  a  good  swallow  of  cognac,  which  revived  me  some. 
It  was  the  calculation,  then,  that  I  should  come  to. 
The  murderous  assault  on  me  the  night  before  was  either 
Wanton,  or,  at  the  least,  exceedingly  mysterious. 

But  my  perceptions  were  dulled,  or  glutted,  I  am 
not  certain  which,  and  I  was  no  longer  keenly  inquisitive 
as  to  the  extraordinary.  When  I  tried  to  rise,  I  took 
even  the  blinding  pains  in  my  head  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  was  only  dumbly  aware  of  the  festering  sores  on 
my  legs  made  by  the  cactus  thorns.  I  got  to  my  feet 
and  proceeded  again  toward  the  old  ranch  house. 
This  time  I  was  not  interrupted.  I  stepped  up  to  the 
door  and  knocked,  knocked  there  as  if  this  were  an  after- 
noon call  in  a  city  street,  and  my  ragged  leather  jacket, 
caked  with  mud  and  filthy,  a  blue  clawhammer  with 
buttons  of  gold.  Also,  when  I  knocked,  a  gust  of  ill- 
temper  disturbed  my  placid  mood,  for  I  thought  I  had 
ripped  my  glove.  It  was  my  bare  hand,  however. 
The  blow  had  started  the  bruises  there  to  running.  I 
lifted  my  foot  to  kick  the  door,  but  the  door  opened, 
and  there  was  Nan  herself,  and  Deaf  Smith's  wife  behind 


THE  MASTER  CRAFTSMAN  347 

her,  and  Deaf  Smith's  little  ones  clinging  to  the  skirts 
of  both.  I  doffed  my  limp  cap,  and  entered,  smiling 
conventionally.  Yet  from  the  pitying  horror  on  Nan's 
face  and  the  stupefied  gaze  of  Deaf  Smith's  wife,  I 
gathered  dimly  that  there  might  be  something  the  matter 
with  me,  and  wondered  if  it  were  my  cravat. 

"  Well,  well,"  I  said  genially,  though  the  words  sounded 
raucous  in  my  ears,  "perhaps  spring  has  come  at  last, 
don't  you  think?  Beautiful  day  for  the  party  yester- 
day. Miss  Nan,  still  have  those  seven  freckles,  I  see." 

The  queer  look  on  Nan's  face  deepened  to  pain. 
Ske  half  gasped,  and  abruptly  turned  away  her  head. 

"The  party?"  murmured  Deaf  Smith's  wife. 

"Why  yes,"  I  replied,  amiably  taking  a  hide-bottom 
chair.  "All  San  Antone  was  there,  you  know.  Very 
quaint  affair  too,  you  know — a  coaching  party  in  ox 
carts.  Guests  had  to  be  loaded  on,  though;  tumbled 
on  like  sacked  potatoes.  And  afterward,  the  illumina- 
tion, the  bonfire.  But  the  flames  would  not  lift  sky- 
ward. Curious,  don't  you  think?  No,  they  sank  back 
in  the  blackest  smoke,  and  blinded  the  eyes  and  black- 
ened the  hearts  of  all  who  came  to  the  party.  Yet 
they  had  Heaven's  own  day  for  it.  You  Were  not  there, 
Miss  Buckalew?  No,  you — you  could  not  be  there, 
could  you?" 

Yet  why  did  she  suddenly  put  her  fingers  to  her  ears, 
and  why  was  she  staring  at  me  like  that  again?  All 
at  once  she  gave  a  little  cry,  and  ran  over  to  me,  and 
laid  her  cool  hand  on  my  head,  above  the  right  temple. 

"Harry,  Harry,"  I  heard  her  half  sob.  "Why,  it's 
a  great  welt!  What " 

"Souvenir  of  the  party,"  I  chirped.  "The  very 
quaintest 

But  she  was  gone,  blindly  stumbling  from  the  room. 
Odd  way  to  treat  a  caller,  really!  She  reappeared  at 


348  THE  LONE  STAR 

once,  with  a  basin  of  water,  and  sent  Deaf  Smith's 
bewildered  wife  for  towels.  Together  they  set  to  work 
bathing  my  head,  especially  the  welt  over  the  temple, 
and  I  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  like  the  serving  of 
coffee,  and  smiled  down  patronisingly  on  the  wide- 
eyed  children.  But  whenever  I  looked  up,  which  I 
often  did  to  admire  Nan's  high  Spanish  comb  and  the 
fugitive  glint  of  bronze  in  her  lustrous  hair,  she  screened 
her  eyes  from  my  gaze.  Meantime  the  cold  water  was 
starting  the  very  hottest  kind  of  a  fire  in  my  brain, 
but  at  last  a  fit  of  shivering  took  me,  and  my  eyes 
closed  and  my  head  went  back,  and  I  began  to 
moan.  Conscious  now  of  the  pain,  I  was  growing  con- 
scious of  other  things  as  well.  For  a  long  while, 
though,  they  kept  on  bathing  my  head,  and  I  think  I 
fell  asleep. 

"  Harry,"  Nan  asked  softly,  "was  it  the — the  Alamo — 
you  were  talking  about?" 

"The  party — No,  I  mean — Oh! "  and  I  moaned  again. 

"You  can't  mean,  Harry,  you  can't  mean  that  you 
were  there?" 

"Was  I!  Well,  I  was  invited.  I  mean — yes,  I  was 
there,  Nan." 

"But,"  she  cried  incredulously,  "I  heard  that  every 
man,  every  Texan,  was  killed?" 

"Yes,  every  fighting  Texan." 

"But  you,  Harry?     You " 

"I — I  was  not  fighting." 

Her  cool  hand  dropped  from  my  forehead. 

"Then " 

"Oh,  I  hid  from  them  all  right,  and  then —  But 
don't  you  see  I  am  here?" 

"You— hid?" 

The  ringing  scorn  brought  my  eyes  wide  open.  I 
sprang  to  my  feet,  for  I  was  awake  at  last. 


THE  MASTER  CRAFTSMAN  349 

"Nan,"  I  demanded,  "what  danger  are  you  in? 
Quick,  tell  me.  I  came  to  take  you  away." 

"Danger?"  she  repeated  blankly.  "Why — "  and  she 
half  laughed.  The  wave  of  her  hand  over  her  quiet 
surroundings,  including  Deaf  Smith's  wife  and  the 
children,  was  answer  enough.  There  was  no  hint  of 
danger  here.  "Of  course,"  she  went  on,  "we  could 
hear  the  cannon  over  in  the  Alamo  each  morning,  and 
then  sounds  of  the  battle  yesterday,  and,"  she  added, 
with  a  sneer  for  herself,  "I — I  always  thought  of  you 
there.  But — Oh,  as  for  me,  I  am  safe  enough,  as  you 
can  see.  I  have  Mr.  Gritton  to — 

My  jaws  snapped  to.  "Yes,  Mr.  Gritton,"  I  cried, 
"yes,  and  Mr.  Gritton's  note  to  me!  That's  why  I  hid, 
why  I  ran  away.  That's  why  I'm  a  coward,  a  leper  you 
fear  to  touch.  Mr.  Gritton?  The  liar,  the  blackguard, 
he  wrote  me  that  you  were  in  danger,  and  I  am  here  now. 
He  wrote  more,  Nan.  Not  that  I  believed  it,  but  he 
wrote  that" — I  faltered,  but  her  look  of  gathering 
disgust  spurred  me  hotly  on — "that  you  welcomed  this 
particular  danger,  that  knowing  the  danger  came  from 
Santa  Ana,  you " 

"Harry!" 

The  cry  of  utter  reproach  brought  me  up  short. 

"Well?" 

Her  cheeks  were  aflame.     She  bit  her  lips. 

"Well?"     I  ventured  again. 

"And  you  ask?"  she  cried.  "You  save  yourself 
when  those  who  are  men  stay  to  die,  you  did  that!  But 
I  cannot  be  surprised,  not  when  you  come  here  whisper- 
ing such  infamy  of  me.  And  then  to  say  that  another 
told  you,  to  double  the  infamy  of  it,  to  hide  cowardice 
behind  such  a " 

"Wait!  Wait,  you  shall  see  the  note." 

Her  eyes   opened  in  sudden    hope.     In  hope,  yes; 


350  THE  LONE  STAR 

unmistakable,  glorious  hope,  behind  her  tears.  She 
swayed  tremulously  as  my  sore  hands  fumbled  through 
my  pockets.  The  hope  was  even  glimmering  faintly 
when  I  had  to  begin  over  again.  I  fumbled  more 
desperately,  for  she  was  drawing  away  from  me. 

"Well?"  she  said  at  last. 

"It's  gone.  Believe  anything  you  like,  for  the  note 
is  gone.  But  now  I  know — now  I  know  why  I  was 
knocked  on  the  head  last  night,  outside  that  window. 
Gritton  again!  Your  Mr.  Gritton!  Of  course,  he  would 
not  care  to  have  me  show  you  his  note." 

"Harry,  Harry!" 

Her  unspeakable  contempt  was  not  aroused  now  for 
my  supposed  lying — that  was  done  already — but  for 
the  sheer  clumsiness  of  it. 

"Then  why,"  excitedly  interposed  Mrs.  Smith,  "did 
Mr.  Gritton  write  you  the  note?"  Good  and  gullible 
soul,  she  believed  me.  And  she  hoped  I  would  clear 
myself. 

Yet  what  was  the  answer?  Why  had  Gritton  written 
a  note  that  had  saved  me  from  death  in  the  Alamo? 
No  Wonder  my  tale  sounded  preposterous!  Villains, 
you  know,  usually  plot  death  for  their  rivals.  But 
while  the  supercilious  Englishman  was  not  one  to  exalt 
any  man  to  the  height  of  rivalry  with  himself,  he  would 
certainly  be  indifferent,  too,  as  to  whether  I  saved  my- 
self or  not.  So  there  I  was,  back  to  the  question  again, 
and  my  poor  head  throbbing  like  all  fury.  He  had 
saved  me.  But  why,  why?  His  motive  was  connected 
with  Nan;  this  much  was  positive.  Yet  could  my 
death  by  any  leap  of  imagination  interfere  with  his 
chances?  My  head  pounded  worse,  for  here  was  a  brand 
new  clue.  Now  Gritton  had  frowned,  there  at  the 
fandango,  when  Nan  braved  Santa  Ana  for  my  sake. 
He  had  frowned,  though,  only  on  what  he  regarded  as 


a  young  girl's  caprice.  Of  course,  her  feeling  toward 
me  could  be  no  more  than  whim  since  he,  Gritton,  was 
near.  But  a  young  girl's  fancy  easily  blazes  to  glorifica- 
tion of  the  object.  Now  then,  now  then — if  I  had  died 
in  the  Alamo!  A  living  man  may  not  be  a  rival.  But  a 
memory?  A  memory  as  a  rival,  that  is  different. 
Even  Gritton  had  this  much  respect  for  the  efficacy 
of  Death.  However,  there  was  no  possibility  now  of  fancy 
blazing  to  glorification.  The  very  whim  was  destroyed. 
Gritton  had  sa\*ed  me,  and  so  had  made  me  the  present 
miserable  wretch  in  Nan's  eyes.  There  was  a  some- 
thing so  hellish  in  this  crafty  playing  on  human  nature 
that  I  recoiled  to  think  that  such  a  man  as  Gritton 
were  abroad  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  I  had  the  right 
solution,  truly  enough,  but  the  proof  was  lost.  The 
devilish  master-craftsman  had  seen  to  that.  I  could  not 
answer  Mrs.  Smith's  charitable  question  after  all.  Nan 
would  only  think  me  more  clumsily  ingenious,  and  I 
did  not  try. 

"But  at  least  you  do  know,  Nan,"  I  said,  for  after 
all  I  was  not  there  to  redeem  myself,  but  to  save  her, 
"you  do  know  this,  that  Gritton  has  been  a  spy  all  along. 
I  overheard  him  admit  it  that  night  at  the  fandango, 
before  you  came.  He's  the  one  we  have  to  thank  for 
Santa  Ana's  invasion,  for  the  quarrels  among  ourselves 
that  made  invasion  possible,  for  the  loss  only  yesterday 
of  all  those  lives  in  the  Alamo." 

"I  do  not  wonder,"  Nan  mused  sorrowfully,  "that 
any  member  of  the  Council  would  like  to  believe  that." 

"But  don't  you  know,"  I  cried,  "that  the  fellow  is  a 
Mexican  spy?" 

"Why,  how  could  I,  when  I  found  him  Santa  Ana's 
prisoner;  when  that  same  night  he  turned  on  three 
Mexican  soldiers  following  us  here,  and  killed  them 
every  one?" 


352  THE  LONE  STAR 

I  picked  up  my  cap.  I  would  end  this  call.  But 
even  with  my  hand  on  the  latch,  I  turned  to  plead. 

"Listen  Nan,"  I  said,  "won't  you  let  me  help  you 
away  from  here?  Your  father " 

"You  might,"  she  replied,  "ask  that  of  Mr.  Gritton 
himself.  I  see  him  coming  now.  He  lives  in  the  smoke- 
house, where  he  hides  from — you:  know — from  his 
Mexican  employers." 

Through  the  window  I  saw  the  drooped  figure  of 
the  Englishman  lazily  approaching.  On  the  threshold 
he  stroked  his  moustache. 

"Oh — ah?"  he  said — Well,  I  was  a  disreputable 
specimen — "Ah  yes,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Ripley,  sir.  Hon- 
oured, I-ah,  assure  you.  Come  to  help  Miss  Buckalew 
away,  you  say?" — Nan  had  repeated  my  question — 
"  Dee-uh  me,  now  I  must  observe  that  that  was  thought- 
ful, very.  But  the  ladies  have-ah — accepted — the 
escort  to  the  settlements  of  your  humble  servitor,  and 
they  so  far  distinguish  him  as  to  regard  the  escort-ah — 
as  efficient.  They  only  wait  until  this  Sant'  Ana,  the 
devilfish,  y'know,  leaves  what  is  left  of  the  campaign 
to  his  generals,  and  sets  out  for  Mexico.  A  few  days, 
re-ahly,  no  more." 

"But,"  cried  Nan  to  me,  "you  do  not  have  to  go — 
yet.  You  are  not  able." 

I  was  going,  nevertheless.  There  are  some  things 
beyond  human  endurance,  and  to  see  Nan  with  this 
fellow  was  a  thing  akin  to  them.  I  could  not  render 
her  the  service  for  which  I  had  come,  and  there  was 
nothing  but  to  go  on  my  way.  That  way  led  south, 
to  Fannin  and  his  army  at  Goliad,  to  my  brother  Phil, 
to  Nan's  father.  At  least  that  way  led  to  fighting. 

"If  you  will  have  the  goodness,"  said  Gritton,  "to 
pass  by  the  corral,  you  will  find  your  horse  still  there." 

"Which  Mr,  Ripley  left,"  observed  Nan,  looking  at 


THE  MASTER  CRAFTSMAN  353 

Gritton  from  levelled  eyes,  "as  he  went  to  the  Alamo. 
You  know,  Mr.  Gritton,  that  Mr.  Ripley  escaped  from 
the  Alamo  to  help  me  away  from  here.  He  had 
received  a — a  note,  saying  that  I  needed  help." 

"Ah?"  said  Gritton,  with  never  a  tremor  of  his 
sandy  lashes.  "Ah,  indeed?  Escaped  to  rescue  a  dis- 
tressed damsel,  you  say?  I  wonder!  Could  it  not  be 
possible,  now,  that  Mr.  Ripley,  sir,  saved  his  life  for 
a-ah — better  reason?  I  mean-ah — to  save  his  life. 
Suppose,  some  time,  when  he  has  the  leisure,  that  he 
ask  himself  that  of  his  own  soul.  To  be  sure,  y'  know, 
he  had  the  distressed  damsel  in  his  mind,  but  in  his  soul 
now,  there's  the-ah — answer  to  the  question." 

And  afterward,  toiling  southward,  I  did  ask  that  of 
my  own  soul.  Again  and  again,  I  asked  it.  The 
master  craftsman  had  put  there  the  heinous  doubt. 
Not  only  had  he  made  me  despicable  in  the  eyes  of  the 
brave  girl,  he  had  made  me  so  in  my  own  eyes.  The 
subtle  Lucifer  that  he  was,  he  even  intrigued  between 
a  man  and  his  own  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
"THE  DEAR  PREROGATIVE  OF  LIFE" 

NEVER  in  this  world,  it  seemed,  would  I  cover  the 
eighty  odd  miles  to  Fannin's  little  army.  As 
a  matter  of  deadliest  fact,  there  was  scarcely  an  hour 
when  Eternity,  the  most  distant  thing  in  life,  was  not 
nearer  to  me  than  the  old  mud  town  and  fortress  mis- 
sion of  Goliad.  Cavalry  squads,  Mexicans  of  course, 
ranged  the  flats  to  the  coast,  and  a  lone  fugitive  horse- 
man could  never  have  evaded  them.  The  very  first 
time  I  ducked  to  hiding  in  a  clump  of  scrub  oak,  I 
abandoned  my  horse,  and  with  head  and  shoulders 
bent  low,  I  ran  on  foot  through  the  thorny  chaparral 
until  I  fell.  There  I  lay,  a  whited  lump  in  the  white 
dust  of  the  parched  desert. 

Day  after  day  were  days  of  just  such  crouching, 
sometimes  in  the  powdered  alkali,  often  in  the  mud 
and  icy  rain.  I  kept  clear  of  trails,  but  as  near  the 
river  as  possible,  so  that  at  night  I  might  drink  or  bathe 
my  sore  feet.  The  few  settlers  of  this  barren  wilderness 
were  all  hurrying  eastward,  as  if  the  monster  of  the  Alamo 
rode  just  behind.  They  gave  me  food  when  they 
crossed  my  path.  Once  I  watched  a  deserted  hut  for 
hours  from  the  brush,  and  at  last  crept  up  to  it,  to  find 
words  of  illiterate  welcome  scrawled  on  the  door.  I 
was  to  take  what  I  needed,  and  leave  the  rest  for  the  next 
fugitive.  •  This  was  my  heartiest  meal,  a  stack  of  tor- 
tillas already  moulding.  Another  time  I  met  a  raw- 
boned  Irishman  from  the  San  Patricio  settlement.  He 
Was  trudging  on  foot  beside  a  huge  cart  goading  on 

354 


"THE  DEAR  PREROGATIVE  OF  LIFE"    355 

the  oxen.  The  cart  was  laden  with  his  tribe  of  little 
ones  and  their  gaunt  mother.  They  urged  me  to  go  on 
eastward  with  them,  but  seeing  that  argument  was 
useless,  the  Irishman  produced  an  extra  flintlock 
from  his  household  goods  and  made  me  take  it,  though 
I  debated  with  myself  if  I  had  the  strength  to  carry 
the  extra  weight. 

At  last,  on  the  thirteenth  day  of  plodding  toil,  in  the 
afternoon,  I  came  within  ten  miles  of  Goliad.  The 
weather  was  thick  and  foggy,  yet  I  expected  to  reach 
the  old  fortress  by  night,  or  at  least  make  sure  if  Fannin 
still  held  it.  But  I  did  not  find  myself  there  until  one 
day  later,  and  then  in  a  way  totally  different  from  what 
I  had  hoped.  The  chain  of  events  leading  up  to  that 
starts  with  a  battle.  When  so  near  to  Goliad,  I  thought 
I  heard  thunder,  and  stopped  to  listen.  The  rumbling 
sound  was  familiar  enough  of  late,  even  though  muffled 
under  the  fog.  It  was  cannonading,  off  eastward  to  my 
left.  There  must  be  the  fight,  ready  prepared  and  being 
served,  for  which  I  had  come.  My  feet,  bleeding  through 
the  holes  in  my  brogans,  grew  lighter,  and  I  shouldered 
the  old  flintlock  instead  of  dragging  it  as  I  cut  through 
the  high  wet  grass  of  the  prairie. 

On  account  of  the  fog,  the  cannonading  was  not  so 
far  away  as  it  sounded.  Abruptly  the  deep  roar  leaped 
to  the  shriller  key  of  musketry,  and  there  were  yells  and 
the  beating  of  hoofs.  Almost  at  once  the  spectral 
shapes  of  wildly  fleeing  dragoons  loomed  big  out  of  the 
the  haze.  They  were  routed,  scattered,  and  plunging 
full  toward  me.  I  dropped  to  my  face  in  the  grass,  and 
as  they  thundered  past,  bullets  whistled  breast  high, 
and  strewed  the  prairie  around  me  with  the  bodies  of 
horses  and  Mexicans.  Evidently  the  dragoons  had  just 
charged,  and  just  as  evidently  they  wished  they  hadn't. 

Not  giving  them  time  to  form  again  behind  me,  I 


356  THE  LONE  STAR 

crept  swiftly  through,  the  grass  on  toward  the  firing. 
In  this  I  calculated  luckily,  for  I  had  passed  through  the 
Mexican  lines;  or  rather,  the  stampeding  Mexican  lines 
had  passed  me  by.  I  was  on  the  inner  rim  of  a  circle, 
and  at  the  centre,  not  fifty  yards  ahead,  there  developed 
in  the  mist  that  tableau  of  tragedy  which  has  become 
almost  the  symbol  of  our  Western  plains.  I  mean  a 
wagon  train  surrounded  by  Indians  on  the  open  prairie, 
and  the  wagons  transformed  into  a  barricade  for  desper- 
ate resistance.  In  the  fog  the  tableau  looked  so  at  first. 
But  instead  of  Indians,  they  were  Mexicans  that  so 
vengefully  encompassed  the  hollow  square  of  carts  and 
dead  pack  mules.  Also,  the  besieged  were  all  armed 
men,  fully  three  hundred  of  them,  except  for  several 
women  fugitives  under  their  protection.  Moreover, 
the  cannon  distinguished  them  from  the  usual  wagon 
train.  They  had  a  brass  piece  at  each  corner  of  the 
hollow  square,  and  four  or  five  others  besides ;  short  sixes, 
long  and  short  fours,  and  a  six-inch  howitzer. 

And  yet,  though  they  were  a  military  band,  there  was 
something  heartbreakinglyunmilitary  about  their  tactics. 
The  blundering  was  so  crass,  so  suicidal,  even  to  my  eyes, 
that  I  could  not  at  first  believe  that  here  was  really 
Fannin's  little  army.  Fannin  was  a  West  Pointer,  and 
he  should  have  known  better.  He  had  presumed  to 
teach  the  science  of  war  to  the  rest  of  Texas.  He  had 
sneered  at  our  farmer,  lawyer,  doctor  and  merchant 
tacticians.  He  had  supplanted  Houston.  Yet  he  had 
allowed  our  last  armed  force  to  be  entrapped  on  the  open 
prairie,  surrounded  by  a  thousand  Mexican  infantry, 
not  to  mention  the  cavalry  that  had  retreated  out  of 
range.  Here  of  all  places,  in  a  basin-like  depression,  he 
had  halted  to  graze  his  animals.  This  was  evident 
from  the  dead  horses  and  mules,  without  harness  or 
packs,  that  were  scattered  around  the  hollow  square 


"THE  DEAR  PREROGATIVE  OF  LIFE"    35/ 

just  as  they  had  been  killed  at  the  first  attack.  And  yet, 
only  half  a  mile  beyond,  there  was  the  dark  outline  of 
timber,  and  timber  would  have  meant  a  fortress  as 
compared  with  this  shallow  open  basin- 

The  stampeded  dragoons  had  left  a  gap  in  the  cordon 
around  the  hollow  square,  and  through  the  gap  I  had 
crawled,  and  was  still  crawling  toward  the  besieged.  A 
slightly  wounded  Mexican  in  the  grass  tried  to  stab  me, 
and  I  had  to  club  him  down,  but  this  was  the  only 
obstacle  in  my  tedious  progress.  From  all  the  other 
sides  the  Mexicans  were  firing  into  the  pit  of  the  basin. 
They  were  dumfounded  at  the  failure  of  the  cavalry 
charge,  and  enraged  that  they  could  not  exterminate 
the  few  exposed  Americans  at  a  blow.  Still,  they  had 
to  change  their  tactics  to  this  long  distance  firing,  and 
luckily  for  the  Americans,  they  had  no  artillery.  Fannin's 
youngsters,  on  the  other  hand,  had  already  acquired  the 
deadliness  with  firearms  of  our  race.  They  were  shoot- 
ing almost  like  the  veteran  plainsmen  of  the  Alamo. 
Wherever  a  cautious  Mexican  raised  in  the  grass  to  aim, 
he  usually  fell  dead  that  same  instant. 

Crawling  yet  nearer,  I  noticed  one  of  the  young 
Americans  particularly,  mostly  because  he  was  so  eager 
to  do  the  shooting  for  the  whole  army.  He  was  slender 
and  agile,  and  again  and  again  I  saw  him  leap  in  full 
view  on  the  barricade,  take  aim  and  fire,  then  pause  to 
make  sure  that  he  had  hit,  and  as  he  always  did,  he 
would  give  a  happy  shout  as  he  leaped  down  again. 
Once  an  officer  ordered  him  to  lie  low,  and  he  resented  it 
hotly.  But  he  got  his  billet  at  last.  They  lifted  him 
into  a  cart,  and  I  could  make  out  that  one  of  the  women 
was  caring  for  him.  Yet  before  long  his  head  appeared 
over  the  cart  bed,  and  again  he  fired,  and  again  he  hit  his 
man.  Three  times  more  he  did  this  same  thing,  and 
always  with  the  same  result.  But  the  fourth  time  he 


358  THE  LONE  STAR 

lurched  backward  in  the  cart.  The  wilful  youngster 
had  gotten  his  second  billet. 

However,  I  was  among  them  by  now.  Something  in 
that  boyish  figure  had  started  me  to  crawling  faster, 
and  when  he  fell  the  second  time,  I  sprang  to  my  feet, 
yelling  at  them  not  to  shoot,  and  ran  for  it  the  rest  of 
the  way.  All  there  were  pitifully  ragged  and  haggard, 
and  yet  they  exclaimed  at  my  own  frightful  appearance. 
But  I  paid  no  attention  to  their  welcome,  not  even  when 
the  ejaculation  was  "  W'y,  young  Rip!"  and  came  from 
none  other  than  Old  Man  Buckalew.  I  pushed  straight 
for  that  cart  in  the  barricade  where  I  had  seen  the  boy, 
and  there  he  was,  lying  on  his  back,  and  frowning 
impatiently;  and  there  also  was  Mrs.  Long,  cutting 
away  the  sleeve  of  his  jacket.  The  first  shot  had  broken 
his  thigh,  the  second  his  right  arm. 

"Hey  there,  Harry,"  he  cried  as  soon  as  I  bent  over 
him,  "and  did  you  see  me  get  'em?  Didn't  I,  Aunt  Jane, 
two  Mexies  for  each  of  these?"  By  "these"  he  meant 
his  wounds. 

I  fell  to  my  knees,  and  raised  his  head,  and  kissed  him 
on  the  brow. 

"Phil,  Phil,"  I  cried  to  the  sound  of  bullets  hissing 
overhead,  "when  will  you  get  enough?" 

"Oh  not" — his  teeth  clicked  to  lock  in  a  groan — 
"not  yet,  if  the  Doc  can — can  find  time  to  rope  up 
this  darned  arm  a  little." 

The  Doc  was  on  hand  already.  He  was  Jack  Shackle- 
ford,  captain  of  the  Red  Rovers,  and  the  Red  Rovers 
were  a  company  of  splendid  young  volunteers  from 
Alabama.  When  Dr.  Shackleford  was  not  bandaging 
the  wounded,  Captain  Shackleford  was  fighting  among 
his  Red  Rovers.  He  needed  only  a  little  while  to  put 
my  brother  in  splints. 

"Now    Harry,"    said    Phil    coaxingly,    as    soon    as 


"THE  DEAR  PREROGATIVE  OF  LIFE"    359 

Shackleford  was  out  of  hearing,  "would  you  mind 
loading  for  me  too?  I  can't,  you  know,  this  arm." 

"Nor  shoot  either.     You're " 

"Can't  I?"  And  before  either  Mrs.  Long  or  I  could 
stop  him.  he  had  propped  himself  against  the  side  of  the 
cart.  " Now,"  he  said,  "see  that  hillock  off  there?  Well, 
those  fellows  aren't  Mexicans.  Not  much,  they're 
shooting  too  good.  They're  Campeachies.  Don't  you 
understand,  they're  Indians,  sure  'nough  Indians,  and 
Harry,  I've — I've  never  got  an  Indian  yet.  Please 
Harry,  just — just  one,  before  it's  too  dark." 

"And  then  will  you  lie  quiet?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

I  loaded  his  rifle  for  him,  and  by  the  aid  of  a  rest  he 
fired  from  his  left  shoulder  at  the  first  shaven  head  and 
scalp  lock  to  appear  above  the  grass  on  the  hillock.  He 
missed,  but  at  the  next  trial  he  achieved  his  childhood's 
ambition.  He  had  actually  slain  a  Redskin.  Others 
of  our  best  marksmen  continued  to  fire  at  the  hillock, 
though  they  now  had  only  the  flashes  to  aim  by,  and  not 
until  they  finally  silenced  the  Indians  did  Phil  give  us 
any  peace.  But  Mrs.  Long  and  I  both  held  him  to  his 
promise,  though  he  maintained  that  he  had  forgotten 
it  entirely,  and  we  must  be  mistaken. 

The  enemy  caused  us  no  more  trouble  that  night. 
Through  the  cold  misting  rain  we  could  see  their  camp- 
fires  around  us,  and  all  night  long  the  hoarse  challenging 
of  their  sentinels  was  constantly  in  our  ears.  Their 
bugles  sounded  every  five  minutes.  It  was  a  cheerless 
night;  a  night  of  suffering  for  those  in  the  barricade. 
Fannin  declared  that  our  only  chance  lay  in  cutting 
through  to  the  timber.  He  valued  that  timber  very 
highly  now,  since  he  had  discovered  that  the  Mexicans 
really  did  presume  to  attack  him.  He  himself  was 
the  first  hit;  yet  with  a  ball  in  the  groin;  he  limped  coolly 


360  THE  LONE  STAR 

about  among  the  men.  Jack  Shackleford  and  the  other 
captains  of  volunteers  had  begged  him  to  keep  on  to  the 
timber,  but  Fannin  had  only  intimated  that  they  were 
afraid  of  the  Mexicans.  Now,  however,  when  it  was  too 
late,  when  five  of  Shackleford 's  Red  Rovers  were  killed, 
and  more  than  half  the  company  were  wounded,  when 
the  other  companies  were  in  like  condition,  when  the 
small  hollow  square  was  muddy  with  blood,  then  Jack 
Shackleford  and  the  other  captains  refused  the  only 
chance  point  blank.  Their  disabled  ones,  martyrs  to 
Fannin's  obstinacy,  could  not  be  taken  along,  since  all 
the  teams  were  killed,  and  if  Fannin  imagined  that  those 
wounded  boys  were  to  be  left  behind  ...  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  there  were  plain  language  used  at 
that  gloomy  council  of  war. 

The  result  was  that  we  laboured  in  the  dank  fog  with 
picks  and  shovels,  throwing  up  an  earthwork  Also  we 
contracted  our  barricade,  making  the  hollow  square 
smaller,  and  reinforced  it  with  the  slain  oxen.  The 
moans  of  our  unsheltered  wounded  never  ceased.  They 
cried  out  in  delirium  for  water,  and  we  had  none.  Over 
in  the  timber,  a  half  mile  away,  water  flowed  in  the 
Coleto,  but  the  Mexicans  were  there.  One  poor  boy  was 
shivering.  If  we  could  only  give  him  a  blanket?  But 
we  had  none.  Others  wanted  food,  only  a  crust  to  gnaw 
on.  But  we  had  none.  By  some  incomprehensible 
stupidity,  the  provisions  had  been  left  behind. 

Once  Mrs.  Long  called  me  to  Phil.  In  his  fever  he  had 
loosened  the  bandages  on  his  hip,  and  was  thrusting  his 
fingers  in  the  wound  to  tear  the  hole  bigger.  Old  Man 
Buckalew  and  I  held  him,  while  Dr.  Shackleford  tied 
his  hands  and  dressed  the  wound  over  again, 

"Harry,"  whispered  Phil  at  last,  "isn't  the  grass  wet 
in  all  this  fog?  Can't  you — just — lay  a  little — of  it — on — 
my  lips?"' 


"THE  DEAR  PREROGATIVE  OF  LIFE"    361 

The  piteous  beseeching  in  his  eyes  drove  me  frantic. 
This,  then,  was  the  aftermath  of  our  glorious  Matamoras 
fever;  a  part  of  the  aftermath.  But  I  forgot  my  own 
blame. 

"Oh  damn  Fannin!"  I  cried.  "Damn  him,  damn 
him " 

I  was  growing  incoherent. 

"Just  what  I  said,"  muttered  Old  Man  Buckalew, 
"when  we  started  for  the  Alamo,  and  he  turned  back 
'cause  a  wheel  busted." 

So  that  was  the  reason!  Compared  with  a  broken  axle, 
to  think  of  the  obstacles  being  met  at  that  moment  by 
the  heroes  of  the  Alamo! 

"But  that  was  three  weeks  ago,"  I  protested.  "  Why 
aren't  you  a  hundred  miles  east  by  this  time,  or  at  least, 
why  didn't  you  stay  behind  the  walls  of  Goliad?" 

"'Damn'  again,"  growled  Buckalew.  "Sam 
Houston's  got  together  a  hund'erd  or  so  scairy  corn- 
shucking  fanners  at  Gonzales,  if  they  haven't  all 
deserted  by  now  after  this  Alamo  news,  and  he's  been 
ordering  us  to  come  on  for  two  weeks  past,  and  yet  we 
only  just  started  this  morning." 

"But " 

"  Kind  o'  late  for  'buts'  now,  sonny.  'Stead  of  lighting 
out  instanter  with  every  last  man  Jack,  and  'most  five 
hund'erd  at  that,  and  the  only  army  left  us,  too,  Fannin 
had  to  go  and  divide  it.  Sent  one  company  south  to 
rescue  a  family  or  two  he'd  heard  about  at  Refugio. 
Then  sent  some  more  companies  to  rescue  the  first  one, 
and  we  haven't  heard  of  none  of  them  since.  So  this 
morning  he  got  tired  waiting,  and  began  to  obey  Hous- 
ton's orders,  and  here  we  are.  But  contrary -wise,"  he 
added  softly,  the  mist  clouding  his  eyes  behind  the 
tortoise-shell  specs,  "contrary -wise,  I  wish  I  might  see 
my  girl  Nan  just  once  more." 


362  THE  LONE  STAR 

As  to  Nan  herself,  the  old  man  was  not  in  that  state 
of  anxiety  that  I  had  expected.  The  reason  was  simple. 
Nan  had  written  him,  Deaf  Smith's  wife  had  written  him, 
and  so  had  Gritton,  and  the  all-efficient  Gritton  had 
procured  the  delivery  of  the  letters.  So  Nan's  father 
knew  that  Nan  was  safe,  and  his  only  grief  was  the  cruel 
likelihood  of  never  seeing  her  again.  Nor  would  I  add  to 
his  sorrow  by  any  word  of  Gritton's  villainy,  especially 
since,  as  regarded  Nan  at  least,  the  baffling  Englishman 
seemed  an  honourable  protector,  even  when  it  came  to 
defying  Santa  Ana  himself.  Likewise  I  told  nothing  of 
my  being  in  the  Alamo.  Until  this  appears,  indeed,  it 
will  not  be  known,  except  to  a  very  few,  that  there  was 
actually  a  survivor  of  the  Alamo.  The  non-combatants 
who  were  spared,  like  the  women,  Dickinson's  child, 
and  Travis's  negro  servant,  have  always  believed  that 
I  had  been  sent  out  for  aid  previous  to  the  final  attack. 
The  pretenders,  though,  are  amusing,  and — ingenious. 
Every  now  and  then  one  of  these  apocryphal  old  chaps 
turns  up,  but  I  only  smile,  and  never  contradict.  My 
story,  because  it  involves  Nan's  name,  can  keep  for 
another  generation  or  so. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  exactly  two  weeks  after 
the  last  day  in  the  Alamo,  and  this  Sunday  again  found 
us  surrounded  by  that  resource  of  cowards,  wolves,  and 
War,  an  enormous  preponderance  of  numbers.  Dawn 
revealed  the  Mexicans  spread  out  in  fearsome  array. 
They  were  even  deploying  two  or  three  hundred  pack 
mules  to  render  their  force  the  more  imposing.  Within 
the  barricade  the  cannon  ammunition  was  about  exhaus- 
ted, but  the  stiffened  and  shivering  youngsters  charged 
their  pieces  with  canisters  of  musket  balls  and  the  how- 
itzers with  grist.  They  had  a  thousand  spare  muskets 
besides,  ready  and  loaded,  and  now  these  were  divided. 
The  encompassing  circle  around  us  tightened,  and  grew 


"THE  DEAR  PREROGATIVE  OF  LIFE"     363 

smaller  and  denser,  and  always  nearer,  like  claws  about 
to  rend.  There  was  an  uncanny  confidence  in  this 
approach  quite  different  from  the  prudence  of  the  day 
before,  a  prudence  they  had  learned  after  the  three 
hundred  boy  volunteers  had  accounted  for  more  than 
their  own  number  in  dead  Mexicans. 

"They  look  to  me,"  ejaculated  one  of  the  Grays — one 
of  the  eighteen  or  twenty  Grays  still  alive — "yes  they 
do,  they  look  to  me  like  they  sure  been  multiplying." 

And  this  was  the  reason  for  that  disconcerting  confi- 
dence. The  Mexicans  could  not  be  fewer  than  fifteen 
hundred.  They  had  been  reinforced  during  the  night. 

"So  long  as — as  they  haven't  artillery,"  said  Fannin. 

But  with  the  first  volley  a  discharge  of  grape  cut  a 
withering  swath  through  our  barricade.  In  its  path 
not  one  of  our  boys  was  left  standing.  Their  bodies  lay 
scattered  and  writhing.  The  Mexicans  did  have  cannon. 
It  was  the  dramatic  moment,  the  moment  of  despair. 

"Now  then,"  shouted  Fannin  coolly,  the  most  con- 
spicuous mark  of  all,  "give  it  back  to  them! — That's' 
right!  Now  again!" 

"God  A'mighty,  sir,  we  cain't,"  protested  a  gunner. 
"This  howitzer's  red  hot  now,  and  there  ain't  a  drop 
of  water  to  sponge  the  thing  with." 

"Let  it  cool  then.     Use  your  rifle." 

"There's  not  three  rounds  left,"  said  Jack  Shackleford. 

Another  charge  of  grape  swept  through  the  barricade. 
A  captain  of  volunteers  snatched  out  his  handkerchief. 

"Put  that  rag  out  of  sight,"  ordered  Fannin.  "We 
whipped  'em  off  yesterday,  and- 


"And  we  would  to-day,  to  the  last  man,  if " 

"If  it  wasn't   for  the  wounded,"   said   Shackleford. 

"Can't  you  hear  them  moaning  for  water?     The  only 

way  to  get  it  is  to " 

Yet  he,  and  all  of  them,  hesitated  before  the  word. 


364  THE  LONE  STAR 

"If  you  mean  surrender,"  sneered  Fannin,  "then " 

A  musket  ball  struck  his  rifle  on  the  stock.  And  above 
the  terrific  fire  the  Mexican  cannon  boomed  again. 

"There,  you  see!"  cried  yet  another  officer.  "It's 
the  question  of  an  hour  at  the  outside  before  every  man 
of  us " 

Fannin  "wavered.  Even  he  quailed  before  the  respon- 
sibility of  exterminating  those  who  had  made  him 
their  leader. 

"Then  put  it  to  a  vote,"  he  said. 

The  captains  ran  to  their  companies,  and  the  com- 
panies voted,  yelling  above  the  din.  They  voted  for 
surrender,  almost  every  one.  In  all  mercy,  they  had 
to.  The  pitiful  agony  of  the  wounded  drove  them  to  it. 
I  was  at  Phil's  side  through  this,  and  he  clutched  my 
sleeve  fiercely.  "Don't!"  he  cried,  and  I  obeyed  him. 
But  that  was  only  because  they  did  not  need  my  vote. 

At  once  Fannin  raised  his  handkerchief,  and  limped 
out  toward  the  Mexicans,  followed  by  two  others. 

"Remember,"  Shackleford  called  after  them,  "we 
agree  to  nothing  that  means  leaving  these  wounded 
boys." 

Three  of  the  enemy  met  our  emissaries  half  way,  and 
when  Fannin  returned,  he  announced  bitterly  that  we 
were  prisoners  of  war.  The  Mexicans  agreed  to  a  formal 
capitulation,  and  he  had  their  word  of  honour,  besides 
the  terms  written  out  in  English  and  Spanish,  and  duly 
signed.  The  usages  of  civilised  nations  were  to  prevail. 
We  were  to  be  taken  to  Goliad,  the  wounded  men  to  go 
in  carts,  and  be  properly  cared  for.  The  volunteers 
would  be  sent  back  to  the  States,  on  giving  their  parole 
not  to  return.  And  when  we  stacked  arms,  scowling 
and  with  wry  faces,  one  of  the  Mexican  officers — a 
German  soldier  of  fortune  he  was — spoke  to  us  comfort- 
ingly: "Bien,  senores,  in  ten  days,  liberty  and  home." 


"THE  DEAR  PREROGATIVE  OF  LIFE"    365 

That  same  afternoon  those  of  us  who  could  walk  were 
herded  against  the  cold  March  wind  to  Goliad.  Old 
Man  Buckalew  was  at  my  side,  and  once  more  we 
climbed  the  hill  to  the  old  mission,  but  not  as  we  had 
climbed  it  at  midnight  one  night,  to  storm  and  take  the 
place.  There  were  five  times  more  of  us  now,  and  yet 
we  entered  there  as  prisoners.  The  stronghold,  the 
gateway  to  Texas,  which  fifty  of  us  had  won,  had  been 
abandoned  to  the  Mexicans.  The  walls  were  blackened 
with  smoke,  showing  where  Fannin  had  tried  to  fire  the 
place  before  leaving.  We  were  crowded  into  the  dark 
ruined  stone  chapel  where  we  had  locked  the  Mexican 
garrison.  The  place  was  more  like  a  gloomy  vault. 
That  night  they  gave  us  each  a  lump  of  beef.  We 
scraped  off  the  vermin,  and  ate  the  meat  raw.  There 
was  neither  bread  nor  salt.  Fannin  hotly  referred  the 
Mexicans  to  their  agreement,  but  there  were  those  among 
us  who  had  the  philosophy  to  laugh  at  Fannin's 
simplicity. 

Not  until  two  days  later  were  the  wounded  brought 
to  even  this  miserable  shelter.  Some  of  them  were 
dying  already  from  exposure.  Their  guards  had  snatched 
off  what  blankets  they  had.  Even  the  surgical  instru- 
ments were  stolen,  and  Shackleford  and  our  other 
physicians  were  taken  from  us  to  care  for  the  Mexican 
wounded.  When  I  tried  to  save  Phil  from  being  kicked, 
the  brute  who  did  it  drove  his  bayonet  in  my  arm.  The 
others  fared  the  same,  and  for  our  mutinous  protests 
we  were  tightly  bound.  But  there  was  the  Senora 
Alvarez,  the  tender-hearted  wife  of  a  good  Mexican 
officer.  She  came  to  us  with  Mrs.  Long,  and  she  loosened 
our  cords.  She  sent  us  wholesome  things  to  eat.  The 
sick  quickly  outnumbered  the  wounded,  but  these  two 
women  were  our  nurses. 

Then  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  more  prisoners — 


366  THE  LONE  STAR 

I  should  say  as  many  ragged,  barefoot,  half-starved 
boys,  many  not  over  sixteen — were  also  herded  into  the 
Black  Hole.  They  were  the  Georgia  Battalion,  com- 
manded by  Major  Ward.  He  called  them  his  little 
brothers.  They  were  the  ones  Fannin  had  sent  to 
Refugio.  A  thousand  Mexicans  had  surrounded  them 
in  the  mission  there,  and  they  had  repulsed  the  Mexicans 
with  their  rifles.  After  that,  having  no  more  powder, 
they  cut  their  way  into  the  swamp.  In  the  swamp  they 
began  to  perish,  and  the  rest  surrendered.  They  told 
us  news  of  the  first  company,  numbering  twenty-three, 
sent  out  by  Fannin.  These  were  overpowered  by 
cavalry,  tied  to  post  oaks,  fusilladed,  and  left  for  the 
buzzards. 

We  were  now  more  than  four  hundred  in  the  ruined 
chapel.  Literally  our  bodies  covered  one  another  as 
we  slept  on  the  stone  floor.  We  were  cramped  the  more 
because  we  had  to  keep  the  space  cleared  between  the 
two  doors.  If  not,  there  was  a  cannon  loaded  with 
grape  in  one  doorway.  The  place  reeked  with  foul 
odours.  It  was  a  hell  of  groans  and  delirium  and 
fevered  curses.  After  the  Alamo,  this  other  holy  edifice! 
— until  a  church  became  for  me,  not  the  symbol  of 
divine  love,  but  of  human  atrocity.  And  as  for  the 
Sabbath  day,  I  almost  wish  at  times  that  that  day 
could  be  blotted  from  the  calendar. 

Into  the  pest  hole,  yet  eighty  more  were  crammed. 
These  were  fresh  volunteers,  who  had  been  equipped 
and  sent  to  us  by  the  women  of  Nashville.  But  their 
ship  had  run  aground  on  the  Texan  coast,  and  the 
Mexicans  had  captured  them  as  they  landed.  They  had 
never  as  yet  borne  arms  against  Mexico,  but  even  so, 
we  could  not  understand  why  they  were  distinguished 
from  the  rest  of  us  by  a  dirty  strip  of  white  rag  tied  on 
each  man's  arm.  According  to  the  terms  of  surrender, 


"THE  DEAR  PREROGATIVE  OF  LIFE"    367 

we  all  expected  release,  and  we  were  the  more  confident 
because  one  of  the  Mexican  colonels  had  taken  Fannin 
with  him  to  Copano,  there  to  learn  what  ships  were  in 
port  and  arrange  for  our  transportation  to  New  Orleans. 

But  there  was  one  episode  that  rose  to  treacherous 
significance  for  at  least  two  of  us.  The  officer  who  acted 
as  head  jailor  was  making  his  round  of  inspection.  He 
also  had  his  usual  bodyguard,  chosen  from  a  regiment 
of  Yucatan  Indians.  These  could  make  pathways 
through  the  crowded  prisoners,  kick  or  roll  the  sick  out 
of  the  way,  prod  us  satisfactorily  with  their  bayonets, 
threaten  and  bully,  and  altogether  were  a  guarantee 
of  the  jailor's  safety  and  comfort.  But  this  time  the 
jailor  had  a  companion  who  was  more  efficient  than 
any.  He  needed  no  bayonet.  His  great  hairy  fists 
were  enough.  I  recognised  his  insolent  swaggering 
hulk  as  soon  as  he  appeared  in  the  dark  church.  As  the 
inspection  proceeded,  he  thrust  his  nose  in  the  face  of 
each  helpless  captive,  and  leered  out  of  his  one  malevo- 
lent eye.  The  wounded  or  sick  he  jerked  up  to  a  sitting 
posture,  looked  once,  and  pushed  them  back  to  the  floor 
again.  When  he  reached  me,  and  peered  into  my  face, 
his  one  eye  gleamed  in  evil  triumph.  But  most  I  looked 
at  the  livid  red  slit  that  had  been  his  other  eye. 

"Balls  o'  fire,  the  little  compadre,  ef  'tain't!"  he 
exclaimed,  and  jabbed  his  thumbs  into  my  eyes  until  I 
screamed  with  the  pain.  I  never  expected  to  see  again 
in  this  world,  but  the  jailor  and  the  Yucatan  Indians 
pulled  him  back,  and  none  too  soon. 

"Imbecile,"  cried  the  jailor  in  a  scared  voice,  "you 
will  have  them  murdering  us! " 

"Bah,  when  they're  tied?" 

"  But  for  all  that,  sefwr,  I  never  go  that  far.  Besides, 
you  said  that  he  was  an  old  man  you  were  looking 
for." 


3 68  THE  LONE  STAR 

"And  this  one  also,  mi  capitan,  this  one  also.  You 
may  ask  Sant'  Ana." 

"Bien,  bien,"  said  the  jailor.  "It  is  a  small  matter, 
anyway."  And  with  that  he  tied  a  rag  on  my  arm; 
not  a  white  one,  but  a  red  one.  A  small  matter  or  not, 
I  darted  here  and  there  among  the  prisoners  until  I 
found  Old  Man  Buckalew. 

"You  keep  moving,"  I  whispered  to  him.  "Kind 
of  slipping  around  in  the  crowd.  Here  now,  quick, 
they're  just  over  there,  and  they're  hunting  for  you." 

"Who  are?     What's  ailing  you,  young  Rip?" 

"It's  Lush  Yandell,  I  tell  you,  and  he's  got  a  red  rag 
for  you  too." 

The  jailor  finished  his  inspection,  and  was  as  usual 
mightily  satisfied  with  himself,  but  at  the  door  Yandell 
burst  into  an  argument  of  vile  Spanish  oaths.  The 
name  of  Santa  Ana,  however,  was  more  potent  yet, 
for  the  jailor  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  ejaculated: 
"Bien,  bien,  have  your  own  way."  This  way  meant 
that  We  were  marched  single-file  through  the  door  of 
the  church,  and  that  when  Buckalew  passed,  Yandell 
struck  out  his  fist  and  marked  him  for  his  own.  The 
jailor  then  tied  on  the  red  rag,  and  we  were  all  packed 
back  into  the  church  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE    GOLIAD   MATINS 

LUSH  YANDELL  paid  us  his  visit  on  Saturday, 
one  week  after  the  battle  on  the  Coleto.  Fannin 
was  brought  back  the  same  evening  from  the  coast,  and 
he  announced  that  all  arrangements  were  made  for  our 
speedy  release.  Though  he  had  to  be  carried  to  the  cot 
they  had  given  him  in  the  barracks,  yet  he  stayed  with 
us  a  little  and  talked  hopefully  of  joining  his  wife  and 
children  very  soon.  The  Black  Hole  was  as  cheerful 
as  a  fireside  that  night.  The  jailor  and  his  bodyguard 
returned,  and  cut  the  ropes  from  our  arms.  The  jailor 
didn't  think  any  of  us  would  want  to  try  to  escape 
now,  and  he  tore  the  red  badge  from  my  sleeve,  and 
from  Buckalew's  also.  One  of  the  Kentucky  Mustangs, 
as  those  mettlesome  young  Kentuckians  called  them- 
selves, drew  a  flute  from  his  jacket  and  played  "Home 
Sweet  Home."  The  holy  edifice  we  were  in  never 
echoed  to  a  holier  note,  even  though  the  old  walls  were 
a  century  old.  Just  about  four  hundred  and  fifty  Amer- 
ican boys  thought  of  their  mothers,  and  as  they  sang 
their  eyes  of  warriors  bold  grew  weepy. 

The  next  morning,  Sunday  morning,  bugles  and 
drumbeats  awoke  us  at  four  o'clock.  We  were  ordered 
to  fall  in  line  by  companies,  and  the  rumour  buzzed 
happily  that  we  were  to  march  to  Copano,  and  there 
take  ship  for  New  Orleans.  Fannin  and  the  other 
wounded  would  follow  later  in  carts,  while  our  surgeons 
had  to  stay  behind  to  help  the  Mexicans.  Yet  I  thought 
it  odd  that  the  Nashville  volunteers,  with  white  rags 

369 


370  THE  LONE  STAR 

on  their  arms,  should  also  be  left  behind,  and  the  ner- 
vousness of  the  Mexican  officers  when  we  questioned 
them  was  peculiar.  I  asked  to  stay  with  Phil,  but  the 
jailor  refused.  I  would  see  him  again  within  a  few  hours 
at  most,  said  he,  and  added,  "at  Copano";  whereat  one 
of  his  bodyguard  laughed  as  at  a  subtle  joke.  Mrs. 
Long  came  in  while  I  was  pleading.  The  Senora  Alvarez 
had  just  brought  her  the  good  news,  she  said,  and  she 
had  hurried  here  to  look  after  Phil  and  the  other  sick 
boys  on  their  journey  to  the  coast.  Our  lines  were 
already  marching  out,  and  the  jailor  again  ordered  me 
to  my  place.  Mrs.  Long  urged  me  also,  and  I  knelt 
down  beside  Phil  to  tell  him  good-bye.  Some  impulse 
made  me  stoop  and  kiss  him  on  the  brow.  Then  with 
Buckalew  at  my  side,  I  fell  into  line. 

The  air  of  that  Palm  Sunday  morning  was  well  worth 
breathing,  and  each  man  of  us  thankfully  filled  his 
lungs  as  we  passed  out  the  door.  Our  guards  were 
formed  in  hollow  squares  to  receive  us,  and  we  marched 
in  single  file  between  two  files  of  Mexicans.  Dragoons 
and  lancers  flanked  us,  or  rode  behind.  Off  ahead  the 
Kentucky  Mustang  Was  playing  his  flute  to  quick  time, 
and  the  long  line  of  some  three  hundred  and  fifty  ragged 
boys  and  men  stepped  it  jauntily,  first  down  the  hill, 
then  through  the  ravine-like  street  of  the  squalid, 
cutthroat  town.  The  mud  walls  were  lined  with  the 
evil  population  of  the  place,  but  except  for  a  jeer  now 
and  then  they  did  no  hooting.  They  rather  stared  at  us 
in  mute  fascination,  and  in  a  kind  of  awe  and  pity  too. 
Yellow,  withered  old  beldames  in  doorways  murmured 
"Pobrecitos"  as  we  passed,  and  talked  to  one  another 
in  low  excited  tones.  In  front  of  Mrs.  Long's  door  stood 
the  Senora  Alvarez,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 
She  ran  into  the  street,  and  stopped  an  officer  of  dragoons. 

"Just  this    one,  senor  capitan,  just  this  one,"  she 


THE  GOLIAD  MATINS  371 

begged.  "Only  see,  how  young  he  is,  and  I  want  him 
— I  want  him  for  a  servant." 

She  pointed  to  one  of  the  Georgia  Battalion,  who  was 
indeed  hardly  more  than  a  child.  The  Mexican  captain 
twisted  uneasily  in  his  saddle,  glanced  up  and  down 
to  see  if  any  superior  officer  were  near,  then  hurried  the 
boy  out  of  the  ranks.  The  Senora  Alvarez  as  quickly 
got  him  into  the  house. 

There  were  other  incidents  as  puzzling.  A  drop  of 
water  fell  on  my  hand,  and  looking  up,  I  saw  a  fat  priest 
leaning  over  the  parapet  of  a  roof.  He  was  sprinkling 
water  on  us  as  we  threaded  our  way  through  the  nar- 
row street.  Next,  a  Mexican  colonel  came  galloping 
past  us  in  a  greatly  agitated,  indignant  and  dumfound- 
ed  state.  He  reined  up  before  the  captain  of  guards, 
our  late  jailor,  and  gesticulated  vehemently. 

"It  is  not  possible!"  he  cried.  "It  cannot  be,  no, 
no,  no!" 

"But  it  is,  mi  coronet,"  replied  the  captain.  "The 
third  order  came  last  night,  from  Santa  Ana  himself." 

"Shame,  shame!" 

"But  you  know  we  protested,  protested  at  the  first 
order,  at  the  second,  and  now  this  third  one  is  imperative. 
What  can  we  do?" 

"Do?  As  you  please,  senor,  but  I — . "  He  tore  from 
his  breast  his  red  scarf  of  a  colonel,  and  hurled  it  from 
him  as  though  it  were  degradation.  His  epaulettes 
followed,  and  his  sabre  he  broke  over  the  horn  of  his 
saddle.  "Do?"  he  sneered. 

The  captain  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  ordered  the 
march  continued.  And  on  ahead  the  Kentuckians  were 
singing  "Home  Sweet  Home."  Once  outside  the  town 
our  long  file  was  broken  into  three  divisions,  and  each 
one  turned  in  a  different  direction.  "Necessary  to 
gather  some  wood  first,"  growled  our  jailor.  The 


372  THE  LONE  STAR 

division  I  was  in  followed  the  river  road  for  perhaps  a 
mile;  then  the  order  came  to  halt.  We  dressed  ranks 
with  our  backs  to  the  river.  At  the  same  time  the  file 
of  guards  behind  us  marched  around  and  doubled  the  line 
of  guards  in  front.  Thus  they  faced  us,  not  ten  paces 
away.  Many  of  them  were  quivering  as  if  with  ague. 
Others  grinned  in  a  ghastly  kind  of  expectancy.  The 
lancers  were  drawn  up  on  either  flank.  Our  jailor 
was  white  to  the  lips  under  his  yellow  skin.  "Take  off 
your  knapsacks,"  he  said  to  us.  Buckalew  and  I  had 
none,  and  thus  we  saw  that  as  the  boys  started  to  obey, 
the  jailor  braced  himself,  trembled,  and  stuttered  out 
the  word,  "Now!"  In  a  flash  the  guards  threw  their 
muskets  at  aim. 

"My  God,  boys,  they're  going  to " 

The  volley  poured  into  us,  and  the  long  line  of  young 
Americans  that  had  stood  erect  an  instant  before  were 
writhing  bodies  on  the  ground. 

Possibly  twenty,  Buckalew  and  I  among  them,  had 
seen  in  time,  and  were  running  for  our  lives  toward  the 
river.  But  the  lancers  pursued,  and  as  they  overtook 
a  poor  stumbling  panting  boy,  drove  a  spear  through 
his  back.  One  or  two  of  our  brave  fellows  dropped  to 
their  knees  intheinstant  of  the  lance's  thrust,  and  begged 
for  mercy ,  or  prayed  to  Heaven.  Their  shrieks  will  never, 
never  cease  to  ring  in  my  ears.  Behind  me  the  cries  were 
all  but  smothered  in  the  impish  howls  of  the  assassins. 
Yet  there  were  shouts  of  defiance  too: — "Let  us  die 
like  men! " — "  Hurrah  for  Texas,  anyhow! " — And  again, 
curses;  the  bitterest  curses  on  those  murderers  that  a 
man  may  ever  hear. 

One  glance  over  my  shoulder,  and  I  saw  that  very  few 
were  killed  outright.  The  Mexicans  were  finishing  their 
clumsy  butchery.  Here  and  there  a  groping,  blinded 
lump  of  tattered  flesh  and  rags  would  struggle  up  from 


THE  GOLIAD  MATINS  373 

a  pulsating  heap,  to  be  stabbed  down  again  with  bay- 
onets. The  Mexicans  remembered  their  heavy  loss  on 
the  Coleto,  and  the  humiliation  to  their  arms  made 
them  fiends  now  that  they  could  spill  American  blood  in 
safety.  Other  volleys  sounded  from  down  the  river,  and 
then  scattering  shots,  and  I  knew  that  our  other  divisions 
Were  faring  the  same.  The  law  was  executed,  that  law 
of  Santa  Ana's  congress  by  which  armed  foreigners 
should  be  dealt  with  as  pirates.  Of  three  hundred  and 
fifty  or  more,  less  than  thirty  escaped;  which,  however, 
is  a  comment  on  the  ghastly  bungling. 

Buckalew  and  I,  and  possibly  ten  others  of  our  divi- 
sion, gained  the  river,  threw  off  our  jackets,  and  plunged 
in.  The  underbrush  fringing  the  stream  retarded  our 
mounted  pursuers,  and  only  one  of  these  made  his  horse 
take  the  water.  The  river  was  narrow  and  we  swam 
it  easily.  We  gained  the  opposite  bank,  crashed 
through  the  thicket,  and  reached  the  open  prairie. 
Then  behind  us  grew  the  pounding  of  hoofs,  and  soon, 
almost  over  our  shoulders,  came  laboured  breathing,  as 
of  some  pursuing  monster.  Poor  Old  Man  Buckalew 
was  winded.  The  air  wheezed  in  his  lungs,  and  a  little 
farther  along  he  tripped  on  a  root.  The  other  fugitives 
passed  us  as  I  stopped  to  pick  him  up.  The  horse  behind 
reared  to  his  haunches  almost  on  us,  and  I  went  down 
under  a  swinging  blow  of  a  lance  across  my  head.  \ 
rolled  into  the  grass,  and  scrambled  to  my  knees,  but 
got  no  further.  The  horseman  poised  his  lance  in 
air  as  a  hunter  would  spear  a  boar. 

"Ho,  the  little  compadre!" 

Our  pursuer  was  Lush  Yandell.  The  socket  of  the 
eye  I  had  taken  from  him  was  blood  red. 

"An'  my  hide  fur  skillet  grease,  ol'  Buck,  ef  'tain  't!" 

He  cocked  his  hairy  misshapen  head,  and  a  gruesome 
chuckling  rattled  in  his  throat.  His  one  eye  gloated 


374  THE  LONE  STAR 

lustfully  as  he  clutched  the  lance  more  to  his  notion 
for  this  particular  work.  A  belated  spattering  of 
musketry  told  us  that  they  were  finishing  up  across  the 
river.  Yandell  raised  his  head  quickly,  and  listened. 
We  heard  two  or  three  last  shrieks.  A  sickening,  dis- 
gusting, maudlin  look  came  over  Yandell's  murderous 
face. 

"Gawd,  Gawd!"  he  blubbered.  "Gawd,  I've  had 
enough!  The  blood  of  white  men — of  white  men — 
Cain't  stan'  'nother  drop! — I've  had  'nough!" 

And  the  man  whined  for  mercy;  to  the  skies,  to  the 
horizon,  to  us,  to  Buckalew,  to  me.  He  was  drunk  on 
blood,  and  he  grovelled  and  slobbered,  and  at  last, 
bellowing  to  Heaven  through  his  moans  and  gasps,  he 
spurred  his  horse,  and  dashed  wildly,  aimlessly,  across 
the  prairie,  reeling  in  his  saddle.  In  the  swamps  be- 
yond he  must  have  floundered,  and  rotted  as  he  died. 

Lush  Yandell,  the  coarsest,  trashiest,  the  most  brutish 
of  men,  an  ape  rather  than  a  man — But  there,  you  who 
are  presumptuous  enough  may  try  to  explain.  I  can- 
not. Still,  it  is  not  unlikely  that  Lush  Yandell  had  a 
soul  after  all,  else  he  would  be  perfectly  explicable. 
Buckalew  and  I  stared  after  him  with  hanging  jaws. 
The  old  man  came  first  out  of  the  daze,  and  his  mouth 
twitched  lugubriously. 

"Might  'ave  left  us  his  hawse,"  he  muttered. 

He  sat  and  pondered,  and  after  a  while,  one  by  one, 
the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  Abruptly  he  twisted 
his  shaggy  moustache  between  his  teeth. 

"Lord,  Lord,"  he  burst  out  With  a  shudder,  "all  them 
pore,  pore  devils!" 

"I  suppose  we  are  saved  now,"  I  mused  dumbly. 

"  But  the  further  away  saved,  the  safer.  Here,  young 
Rip,  we  got  to  be  moseying." 

"  I— I  must  go  back.     Phil " 


THE  GOLIAD  MATINS  37S 

"Oh,  they  aren't  that  low,"  he  protested.  "Your 
powder-can  brother  is  among  the  wounded,  and  they 
shorely  wouldn't " 

But  I  could  see  that  his  assurance  came  from  horror 
of  the  thought,  and  not  from  conviction. 

"I  must  know"  I  said. 

"And  I,"  he  retorted,  getting  to  his  feet,  "can  see  in 
your  face  that  you'll  just  go  plump  in  among  'em  again. 
Come  along." 

But  it  was  not  to  urge  me  away.  He  himself  led 
back  toward  the  river. 

"I'll  see  to  you,  first,"  he  grumbled,  "for  I  reckon 
you'll  count  as  one,  all  right,  and  I'm  going  to  bring  the 
very  last  man  I  can,  self  included,  to  General  Sam 
Houston.  There's  a  certain  piece  of  work  for  us,  boy, 
after  this  mawning's  work,  and  you  think  I'll  lose  you 
now  ?  I ' ve  got  in  mind  another  day  and  place  for  you  and 
me  to  die  in,  and  it 's  not  to-day  and  here,  neither.  But 
come  along,  and  we'll  try  to  rest  you  up  easy  first  about 
Phil." 

How  he  proposed  to  do  that,  I  don't  know,  but  we 
went  on  retracing  our  steps  very  cautiously;  and  then, 
abruptly  stopped  short.  Faint  and  smothered  it  was, 
but  we  heard  it,  another  crackling  sputter  of  musketry 
fire.  This  volley  was  not  along  the  river,  but  far  away, 
off  behind  the  town,  and  up  on  the  hill,  like  a  muffled 
echo  of  the  others.  I  looked  involuntarily  at  Buckalew, 
and  he  at  me,  but  he  shifted  his  gaze  quickly.  I  saw, 
though,  the  depth  of  pity  there  for  me.  The  same 
appalling  suspicion  had  unnerved  us  both,  and  his  con- 
firmed mine.  That  last  volley  was  a  fusillade  up  in 
the  mission  itself.  With  a  little  cry  I  broke  into  a  run 
toward  the  river,  and  I  ran  now  more  frantically  than 
when  I  had  expected  a  trooper's  lance  between  my 
shoulders  at  each  next  step.  At  the  underbrush 


376  THE  LONE  STAR 

Buckalew  caught  up  with  me,  and  gripped  me  by  the 
arm. 

"Wait!"  he  panted.  "Now,  down  on  your  knees, 
and  crawl." 

At  the  water's  edge,  behind  a  screen  of  reeds,  he 
stopped  me  definitely.  On  the  other  side  the  Mexicans 
were  throwing  the  corpses  of  the  murdered  volunteers 
into  the  dry  brush,  and  setting  them  on  fire.  They 
had  chosen  this  spot  for  the  massacre  because  the  brush 
was  convenient.  We  drew  back,  for  the  smoke  drifted 
over  us  in  a  sickening  cloud.  We  thought,  too,  that  we 
heard  groans  mid  the  crackling  of  flames. 

"Can  you — can  you  say  something,  Harry?" 

I  caught  his  meaning. 

"But  I  can't,"  I  sobbed.  "And  they  don't— don't 
need  any  prayer.  They " 

The  old  man  crumpled  my  hand  in  his  grip. 

"Shorely,  shorely,"  he  muttered.  "Heaven  don't 
need  any  asking  for  to  remember  them  pore  boys.  We 
know,  boy,  we  know.  And" — his  teeth  ground  and 

crunched  in  his  head "and  we'll  not  forget  'em  either, 

if — if  God  only — gives — us — the — chance!" 

"But  Phil?— The  others  up  in  the  fort?  That  last 
shooting,  what " 

"Wait,  can't  you!  We  got  to  wait — There,  Harry, 
I  ain't  meaning  to  bully;  only,  for  God's  sake,  boy,  don't 
look  like  that!  We  all  'ave  reg'larly  got  to  take  what's 
sent — Now  look  there,  what's  those  carts  lumbering 
down  this  here  way  from  the  town  for,  and  what's  all 
that  crowd?" 

He  meant  only  to  turn  my  crazed  thoughts,  but  as 
the  throng  and  carts  drew  nearer,  they  held  our  gaze. 
Soldiers  prodded  the  oxen,  the  townspeople  surrounded 
them  with  bulging  eyes,  and  the  carts,  where  we  hoped  to 
see  our  wounded  volunteers  decently  transported,  were 


THE  GOLIAD  MATINS  377 

piled  high  with  some  formless,  inert  cargo.  Nearer  yet, 
and  now  in  the  river  road  just  opposite,  we  perceived 
that  each  conglomerate  mass  was  a  heap  of  dead  bodies. 
Arms  and  legs  dangled  over  the  edges,  and  sluggish 
drops  were  falling  between  the  planks  to  the  ground. 

Buckalew's  fingers  circled  my  arm,  and  tightened 
there.  The  pressure  was  a  silent,  imperious  command 
to  fortitude,  and  I  think  it  kept  me  from  turning  a 
gibbering  maniac  that  day. 

"That  woman  there,"  he  whispered,  "the  one  totter- 
ing, and  sobbing  in  her  shawl?" 

I  tried  to  look,  but  my  eyes  were  blurred,  and  my 
brain  was  on  fire. 

"W'y,"  he  exclaimed,  "it's— it's  Jane  Long!" 

"But  she  is  up  at  the  church,  with  Phil." 

The  vise  on  my  arm  gripped  to  the  bone,  and  the  acute 
pain  steadied  my  wabbling  mind.  The  carts  had  ceased 
their  creaking,  and  the  bodies  were  being  tossed  out  in 
heaps. 

"See,  that  one  they're  stripping  of  the  brass-button 
coat,  the  thieves" — I  know  that  Buckalew  was  using 
horror  as  antidote  for  horror — "And  we  didn't  have  so 
many  brass  buttons  but — Lord  in  Heaven,  it  is  Fannin!" 

Buckalew  was  right.  Weeks  afterward  we  learned 
how  Fannin  had  been  carried  from  his  bed,  had  been 
placed  in  a  chair  before  his  executioners.  As  a  matter 
of  course,  he  died  a  brave  man. 

"Look,  look  at  Mrs.  Long!"  I  cried.  The  supreme 
terrible  antidote  was  failing.  "Look,  look!" 

The  dear  brave  lady  was  dragging  a  body  from  the 
pile  of  mangled  dead,  and  protesting  that  that  body  at 
least  should  have  burial,  and  not  be  burned  with  the 
rest.  And  I  knew  him,  I  knew  him.  I  could  not 
mistake  his  slender  form,  nor  the  clean-cut  features, 
when  his  dear  head  fell  back  between  his  shoulders.  I 


378  THE  LONE  STAR 

knew  him  though  his  eyes  were  closed — Mrs.  Long  had 
done  him  that  service — I  knew  him  though  his  skin 
was  purple,  though  a  thick,  red  stain  trickled  from  the 
corner  of  his  lips.  Buckalew's  hand  quitted  my  arm 
and  rested  gently  on  my  shoulder  as  I  sank  face 
downward  in  the  brush.  He  waited  and  stroked  my 
head,  awkwardly,  tentatively.  I  think  I  must  have 
grown  rigid.  At  last  he  despaired. 

"Well,"  he  burst  forth,  "well,  and  aren't  you  going  to 
feel  bad  at  all?  I'd  think  you'd  feel  like  crying." 

Abruptly  my  whole  body  relaxed  in  sobs,  and  I  did 
cry,  for  I  don't  know  how  long,  crying  always  my 
brother's  name. 

"There,  that's  better,"  the  old  man  muttered  over  me- 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
"THE  RUNAWAY  SCRAPE" 

WE  LAY  among  the  reeds  until  night.  Across  the 
river  the  buzzards  flapped  their  wings  over  the 
charred  and  half-burned  bodies,  impatient  of  embers 
still  smouldering.  The  foul  birds  in  their  eagerness 
rasped  my  nerves,  and  those  other  harpies  did  too,  the 
Mexicans  who  gorged  their  curiosity  on  carrion  all  day 
long  mid  that  stench  of  burned  human  flesh.  The  sight 
crazed  me  by  torturing  degrees,  and  when  I  could  stand 
it  no  longer,  I  would  start  up,  meaning  to  dart  among 
them  and  beat  them  off.  But  each  time  Old  Man  Buck- 
ale  w  pinioned  me  down  again.  "That's  not  the  way  to 
remember,  boy,"  he  groaned.  "Wait  now,  wait, 
and  Sam  Houston — "  Then,  seeing  me  quiet  again,  or 
inertly  sobbing  my  brother's  name,  he  would  save  his 
breath  until  the  next  time. 

When  night  came,  and  he  said  "Come,"  I  followed 
him  dumbly,  crawling  through  the  brushes  to  the  open 
prairie.  For  days  I  had  no  thought  of  our  movements, 
of  our  perils,  of  our  sufferings.  Always  I  was  searching, 
searching,  searching  to  comprehend  my  grief;  telling 
myself  that  Phil  was  dead;  then,  all  over  again,  striving 
to  grapple  the  fact,  that  it  might  not  get  away  another 
time.  I  had  no  thought  of  the  armed  men,  now  eight 
hundred  all  told,  lost  to  Texas  through  the  obstinacy 
of  the  Council,  nor  of  the  fearful  score  in  this  that  I  now 
had  to  settle  with  my  manhood.  That  grew  into  me 
afterward,  a  quiet  and  a  dangerous  thing.  But  for  the 
moment  I  was  only  a  blind  and  pliable  creature.  Anguish 

379 


380  THE  LONE  STAR 

made  of  me  a  pulp.  I  was  ever  seeing  the  red  stain 
thickening  at  the  corner  of  Phil's  mouth.  What  diploma 
more  besplotched  than  this  could  any  wretch  have  to 
the  estate  of  manhood?  And  later,  when  that  quiet 
and  dangerous  thing  grew  into  me.  .  .  .  But  you 
shall  judge  for  yourself  how  it  warped  the  fibres  of  my 
soul,  and  drew  taut  the  heartstrings  that  had  always 
quivered  under  the  breath  of  Fear,  until  you  will  won- 
der that  they  ever  again  responded  even  to  the  touch 
of  Pity. 

Buckalew  led  northeastward  for  Gonzales,  hoping 
to  find  Houston  there.  We  swam  the  flooded  Guadalupe 
by  means  of  a  log,  and  came  cautiously  to  the  town. 
But  we  found  no  living  creature.  The  cabins  that  had 
looked  like  a  handful  of  oaken  dice  flung  among  the 
trees  were  only  ashy-white  scars  in  the  forest.  The 
town  was  burned  off  the  bosom  of  the  wilderness.  We 
kept  on  up  the  river,  apparently  the  only  two  men 
left  in  all  Texas,  and  at  my  headright  league  we  found 
blackened  log-ends  to  accentuate  the  desolation.  I 
hoped  that  our  own  men  had  taken  what  had  vanished, 
but  there  were  lamentable  evidences  that  the  Mexicans 
had  been  here  too,  or  even  the  fraudulent  Texan  press- 
masters,  who  seized  stock  in  the  name  of  our  cause  and 
drove  it  over  into  Arkansas.  I  stood  among  the  scat- 
tered bricks  where  my  hearth  had  been,  where  Phil  and 
I  had  lain  on  rugs  before  the  luxurious  fire,  and  it  was 
then,  I  think,  that  the  quiet  and  dangerous  thing  first 
began  to  grow  into  me. 

"They  prob'bly  run  off  your  niggah,  too,"  said  Buck- 
alew. "Snakes  and  sticks,"  he  exclaimed,  "here's  a 
dead  dog,  cooked  to  a  cracklin!" 

The  dog  was  my  foxhound,  poor  old  L'fitte.  Half 
burned  away,  with  his  head  cleft  by  a  sabre,  he  was 
lying  across  what  had  been  my  door  sill.  We  buried 


"THE  RUNAWAY  SCRAPE"  38! 

him  there,  the  gallant  home  guard.  As  we  worked 
a  glad  shout  startled  us,  and  there  was  Yappe,  on  weak 
tottering  legs,  running  to  us  from  the  river  bottom. 
His  sunken  black  face  was  frantic  with  joy,  and  he 
stammered  and  cried  like  a  baby  as  he  hugged  me,  and 
cried  again  until  I  thought  his  heart  would  break  when 
I  told  him  of  Phil. 

"An'  wha'  yo'  po'  ma  say?"  he  moaned.  "An'  po' 
ol'  Mah's  too;  yas,  an'  him  too?" 

"Where  have  you  been?"  I  asked.  "How'd  you 
escape?" 

"Bin  hidin'  out'n  de  timbuh,  fo'  daiys  an'  daiys. 
Ye-yeah  sah,  fo'  daiys  an'  daiys,  evuh  sence  we  done 
know  'bout  de  Al'tno,  an'  how  de  Mesk'uns  was  comin' 
dis  heah  way." 

"But  why  didn't  you  go  on  east  with  everybody  else? " 

Yappe  looked  at  me  reproachfully.  And  he  the 
majordomo?  No  sir,  he  jes'  stayed,  to  see  what  they'd 
take  next. 

"C'rect,"  said  Buckalew,  "but  without  you  think 
they'll  pull  up  the  headright  league,  there  being  nothing 
else  left,  hadn't  you  better  streak  it  with  us  east  till  we 
catch  up  with  Houston?" 

"But  don'  you  go  an'  tell  him,  sah,  'bout  dem  Goliad 
muhduhs,  ur  he  jes'  natch'ly  lock  you  bof  up,  laik  he 
done  two  Mesk'uns  that  fust  tole  him  'bout  de  Al'mo. 
Ev'body  am  done  scairt  cl'ar  to  def,  already." 

The  locking  up  had  happened  at  Gonzales,  while 
Houston  was  trying  to  organise  three  hundred  planters 
who  did  not  even  have  powder.  Houston  had  hurried 
from  the  Convention  of  all  Texas,  bringing  with  him 
into  camp  the  Declaration  of  Independence  that  had 
just  been  adopted.  He  had  sent  couriers  over  the 
country,  urging  every  settler  to  join  him,  and  he  was 
on  the  eve  of  marching  to  the  relief  of  the  Alamo  when 


382  THE  LONE  STAR 

the  news  came  of  its  fall.  He  sent  Deaf  Smith  out  to 
verify  the  report,  and  Deaf  Smith  met  Mrs.  Dickinson 
and  other  fugitives  who  brought  Santa  Ana's  proclama- 
tion that  the  rest  of  Texas  should  quickly  meet  the 
same  fate. 

Then  the  panic  began.  The  planters,  many  of  them, 
got  leave  to  hurry  to  their  families  and  take  them  out 
of  the  path  of  the  horde.  A  number  deserted,  and  fled 
eastward,  spreading  wild  tales  and  turning  back  those 
who  were  hastening  forward  to  volunteer.  At  Gonzales 
the  widows  of  those  slain  in  the  Alamo  had  wept  and 
shrieked,  and  their  cries,  and  the  cries  of  their  children, 
Were  heard  all  night  long.  Houston  sent  to  the  outlying 
cabins,  and  had  every  family  brought  in,  and  keeping 
together  what  men  he  could,  which  was  grievously  hard 
to  do,  he  set  out  on  that  desperate  retreat  known  as  the 
Runaway  Scrape.  All  his  stores  were  loaded  into  one 
wagon,  and  this  wagon  was  drawn  by  four  decrepit  oxen. 
He  had  but  two  cannon,  and  these  he  could  not  take  with 
him.  They  were  sunk  in  the  Guadalupe.  The  nucleus  of 
his  destitute  army  was  outnumbered  by  the  fugitives,  by 
the  families  that  he  gathered  to  him  as  he  went,  and  his 
march  over  the  wet  prairie  through  the  icy  rains  was 
retarded  by  their  carts  and  wagons.  Four  scouts  were 
left  behind,  to  watch  for  the  Mexicans  and  burn  the 
town.  All  this  we  patched  together  out  of  Yappe's 
incoherent  tale. 

"And  did  the  Mexicans  come?"  we  asked. 

Yes,  the  Mexicans,  about  a  thousand  of  them,  had 
come  from  San  Antonio  only  a  few  days  later.  They 
had  crossed  the  Guadalupe,  and  were  jubilantly  pursuing 
Houston  toward  the  Colorado. 

"Look  here,  Yappe,"  demanded  Buckalew,  "did  you 
see  those  fugitives,  those  women,  that  came  from  San 
Antone?" 


"THE  RUNAWAY  SCRAPE"  383 

"Yassah." 

"Then  do  you  know  if  Deaf  Smith's  wife  and  my  girl 
Nan  were  among  'em?" 

"A  Mexican  lady,"  I  explained,  "and  three  children, 
and " 

"An'  was  her  black  eyes  jes'  a-blazin',  an' " 

"Who,  the  Mexican  lady's?" 

"No,  no,  Mah's  Harry,  de  pu'ty  young  lady  wif  de 
buckskin  gantlets,  an'  was  they  a  bulgy-eyed  gem'un 
along  too?" 

"An  Englishman?"  I  cried. 

"Ye — yeah  sah,  I  spec  likely." 

Buckalew  glared  impatiently  over  the  bleak  stretch 
of  the  prairie  eastward.  "Come,"  he  said,  "she's  with 
Houston  and  the  rest,  and  we've  got  to  catch  'em 
in  time  for  the  fight,  that  is,  if — if  Sam  Houston  ain't 
Walloped  before  now." 

"Oh  no,  sah,"  protested  Yappe,  "he  am'  gwine  be 
walloped.  I  reckon  you  don'  know  he's  a  big  gem'un, 
an'  dat  he  was  pow'ful  mad." 

We  started  on  foot,  the  three  of  us,  and  nearly  bare- 
foot at  that.  The  prairie  was  like  a  sodden  swamp. 
The  northers  had  blighted  the  early  flowers,  and  the 
roads  were  trodden  into  a  boggy  mire  first  by  Houston's 
stricken  band,  and  next  by  the  pursuing  Mexicans. 
Broken  wheels,  abandoned  carts,  dead  oxen,  pieces  of 
household  goods  marked  their  trail.  Plantations  every- 
where were  given  back  to  the  wilderness.  Weeds  covered 
ploughed  fields,  and  we  saw  never  a  head  of  stock.  But 
at  least  the  Mexicans  could  not  live  off  the  country.  At 
the  Colorado  there  were  signs  of  fighting,  to  judge  from 
log  breastworks  on  the  east  bank  of  the  swollen  stream, 
and  graves  of  Mexicans  on  the  west  bank.  Yet  it  could 
not  have  been  a  general  engagement.  Houston  had 
planned  to  attack,  we  learned  afterwards,  but  the  news 


384  THE  LONE  STAR 

had  reached  him  here  of  Fannin's  surrender.  The  blow 
was  the  more  heartbreaking,  since  he  had  been  waiting 
for  Fannin  to  join  him.  His  wrathful  and  turbulent 
men  wanted  to  fight  anyway,  but  they  were  the  only 
force  left  now,  and  Houston  took  up  the  Runaway 
Scrape  again,  falling  back  further  eastward  toward  the 
Brazos.  Then  the  Mexicans  made  rafts,  crossed  over, 
and  kept  up  the  chase.  In  their  wake  we  three,  Buck- 
alew,  Yappe  and  I,  trudged  as  ever  through  the  chill 
rains. 

When  we  reached  the  Brazos  bottoms,  it  was  April 
already,  and  the  wild  rye  was  growing  high  under  the 
Jive-oaks.  This  proved  to  be  salvation  for  us,  for  hoofs 
pounded  behind  us,  and  we  had  only  time  to  jump 
out  of  the  road  and  sink  into  hiding.  A  gorgeous  staff 
of  officers  passed  us  first,  and  among  them  was  Santa 
Ana  himself,  with  his  favourite,  the  blithe  Colonel 
Almonte,  at  his  side.  It  was  my  turn,  now,  to  grip  Old 
Man  Buckalew,  and  hold  him  down.  Since  the  Battle 
on  the  Medina  he  had  never  laid  eyes  on  Santa  Ana,  but 
the  Mexican's  crafty,  cruel  and  vainglorious  face  was  not 
hard  to  recognise.  The  Napoleon  of  the  West  was 
puffed  with  victory,  and  he  was  pushing  on  to  join  his 
advance  in  the  glorious  deeds  of  extermination.  His 
escort,  a  crack  battalion,  came  on  behind  at  a  quick 
canter,  and  after  them,  six  or  seven  hundred  of  the 
choicest  troops  in  the  Mexican  army.  The  august 
conqueror  had  decided  to  stay  a  while  longer  in  Texas, 
and  personally  tie  Sam  Houston  to  his  chariot  wheel. 
Perhaps,  also,  he  had  a  vague  glimmering  suspicion 
that  the  Texans  were  not  quite  vanquished  as  yet. 
Almonte  may  have  told  him  so. 

We  had  followed  them  but  a  short  distance  when  we 
heard  shooting  off  ahead,  in  the  direction  of  the  river. 
We  made  a  detour,  and  came  to  the  Brazos  at  a  point 


"THE  RUNAWAY  SCRAPE"  385 

north  of  the  town  of  San  Felipe.  Then  we  understood. 
The  Mexicans,  just  reinforced  by  Santa  Ana,  themselves 
occupied  San  Felipe,  or  rather,  the  blackened  ruins  of 
San  Felipe,  and  they  were  firing  at  a  hundred  or  more 
Texans  entrenched  in  the  bottoms  on  the  other  side. 
But  the  Mexicans  were  not  able  to  cross.  The  riflemen 
opposite  had  cut  down  trees  at  the  landing,  and  made 
themselves  a  barricade.  Now  over  this  barricade  there 
waved  a  strange  and  beautiful  flag.  The  flag  was  quite 
different  from  that  Constitutional  tricolour  we  had 
fought  under  at  the  Alamo.  There  was  no  touch  of 
Mexican  green  here,  but  the  colours  were  our  own 
American  colours,  the  red,  white,  and  blue.  The  blue 
was  a  wide  perpendicular  bar,  covering  one-third  of  the 
flag.  The  rest  of  the  standard  was  divided  into  two 
horizontal  stripes,  the  top  one  white,  the  lower  one  red. 
In  the  centre  of  the  blue  field  there  gleamed  a  white 
star,  just  one  lone  white  star. 

"  Tears  to  me  like  a  youngish  relation  to  Old  Glory," 
said  Buckalew. 

"I  know,"  I  exclaimed.  "If  the  Convention  declared 
us  independent,  then  Texas  must  be  a  republic  now, 
and " 

"Of  coh'se,  and  that's  her  flag.  And  ain't  she  a 
beauty!" 

"But  how  are  we  to  get  over  to  her,  that's  what  I 
want  to  know?" 

"Nothing  nearer  than  Groce's  ferry,  I  reckon,  and 
that's  twenty  miles  upstream." 

And  twenty  miles  back  again  on  the  other  side  would 
make  forty  altogether,  and  we  were  starving,  and  worn 
down  to  a  rack  of  bones.  We  had  not  gone  far,  however, 
before  we  again  leaped  out  of  the  trail  and  hid  in  the 
rye.  This  time  a  single  horseman  came  up  behind  us, 
and  that,  too,  as  swift  as  the  wind.  But  his  eyes 


386  THE  LONE  STAR 

we  could  not  escape.  He  reined  in  his  fleet  clay- 
bank  horse,  and  drew  his  pistols,  but  we  were  calling 
to  him  already. 

"You're  some  in  a  hurry,  Deaf  Smith,"  said  Buckalew. 

It  seemed  the  misfortune  of  men  to  be  always  saying 
the  obvious  to  Deaf  Smith,  but  this  time  the  taciturn 
old  scout  only  made  a  grimace,  for  after  all  he  was  glad 
to  see  us.  Naturally  he  was  in  a  hurry.  General 
Houston  would  want  to  know  about  the  Mexican 
reinforcements. 

"Where  is  General  Houston?"  we  asked. 

"At  Groce's  ferry." 

"But  those  Texians  across  from  San  Felipe?" 

"The  San  Felipe  militia." 

"And  Nan,  Deaf?     Where  is  Nan?" 

At  least  this  was  a  natural  question,  and  Deaf  Smith 
charitably  expended  his  breath  by  jerks.  Nan  and  Mrs. 
Smith  and  the  little  ones,  under  the  especial  escort  of 
Gritton,  had  gone  south  to  Harrisburg  on  Buffalo  Bayou. 
They  had  gone  there  with  the  Government,  which  had 
changed  its  capital  to  Harrisburg  on  the  approach  of 
the  Mexicans. 

"The  Government?" 

Of  course,  the  Government  of  the  Republic  of  Texas, 
President,  Cabinet,  et  aL,  except  Secretary  of  War  Rusk 
and  Vice- President  Zavala.  These  two  were  in  camp 
with  Houston.  Deaf  Smith  made  us  feel  that  we  were 
not  well-grounded  in  ancient  history.  Altogether  he 
did  not  lose  two  minutes  over  it,  either,  and  then  was 
gone  again  like  the  wind.  We  followed  on  foot,  but 
only  until  we  met  the  men  and  extra  horses  he  sent 
back  to  us  from  camp.  Two  hours  later  we  were  with 
the  Army  of  Freedom. 

The  Army  of  Freedom  numbered  seven  hundred  all 
told,  five  hundred  in  camp  at  Groce's  ferry,  on  the  west 


"THE  RUNAWAY  SCRAPE" 

bank  of  the  Brazos,  and  two  hundred  more  in  detach- 
ments at  San  Felipe  and  the  other  crossings.  Though 
Texas  planters,  they  were  mostly  new  men  to  me.  Only 
a  few,  even  of  the  officers,  had  ever  seen  service  be- 
fore, and  Houston  himself  had  never  led  an  army  until 
now.  Against  him  was  Santa  Ana,  who  had  fought 
continuously  for  twenty  years,  who  had  never  been 
defeated.  Against  the  seven  hundred  Texans, 
ragged  and  mostly  barefoot,  with  only  old  flintlocks, 
there  were  seven  thousand  veterans  of  Mexico's  civil 
wars.  However*,  armies  of  freedom  usually  do  start 
with  a  raw,  destitute  handful. 

We  found  the  camp  in  commotion  over  Deaf  Smith's 
news  of  the  Mexicans  concentrating  below  us.  Houston 
had  decided  to  cross  over  to  the  east  bank,  and  his  orders 
were  being  obeyed  with  much  grumbling. — "More  o' 
this  scarey  back- tracking,  eh?" — "If  Sam  Houston 
calculates  on  running  clean  to  Arkansas  for  reinforce- 
ments, and  leave  all  Texas  to  the  sun-dried  Mex'kins, 
then,  well — "  The  Commander-in-Chief  was  in  a  fair 
way  of  being  deposed,  right  there.  A  big  powerful  man 
in  old  clothes  was  tugging  at  the  wheel  of  a  mired  can- 
non. He  heard  the  open  muttering,  and  a  vindictive 
flush  overspread  his  massive  features.  He  straightened 
angrily,  and  I  recognised  General  Houston  himself. 
I  noticed  also  that  his  brows  knotted  in  a  twinge  of 
pain,  and  that  his  shirt,  under  the  right  shoulder,  was 
turning  red.  It  was  from  the  old  unhealed  wound 
that  he  had  received  while  fighting  Indians  under 
Andrew  Jackson.  But  the  passionate  outburst  we  all 
expected  did  not  come.  Even  his  solemn  childish 
vanity  seemed  gone.  There  was  a  moment's  struggle 
With  himself,  and  his  bearing  changed  to  one  of  gentle 
courtesy. 

"You  boys  all  know,"  he  said  cheerily,  "that  no  wave 


388  THE  LONE  STAR 

is  going  to  flow  very  far  uphill,  and  it  can't  be  long  now 
until  this  Mexican  wave  will  begin  to  flow  back." 

"But  why  uphill,  general?"  objected  a  man  in  a 
Spanish  cloak.  This  man  would  have  been  conspicuous 
there  for  the  cloak  alone,  but  his  voice  was  saddened, 
and  he  spoke  with  an  accent.  I  remembered  him, 
for  he  was  Don  Lorenzo  Zavala,  once  governor  of 
the  State  of  Mexico  and  now  Vice- President  of  the 
Republic  of  Texas. 

"Yes  sir,  uphill,  sir,"  Houston  replied.  "With  all 
deference  to  exceptions  like  yourself,  Mr.  Vice- President, 
I  mean  that  the  invasion  is  now  rolling  up  against  Anglo- 
American  civilisation,  and  it  can't  come  much  farther. — 
Why,  Mr.  Buckalew,"  he  exclaimed  heartily,  seeing  us 
for  the  first  time  as  we  stood  waiting  for  a  word  with 
him.  "  Now,  now,  where  are  the  rest  of  you  Redlanders? 
I've  been  looking  for  them  every  day,  and  only  eighty 
have  come  in  so  far.  Scared  of  the  Indians,  eh?" 

"  I  left  my  ranch  months  ago,"  said  Buckalew.  "  We're 
just  here  from  Goliad." 

"From  Goliad?"     The  word  passed  excitedly. 

"Yes,  and  young  Rip  too." 

Houston  frowned.  "I  see  young  Rip,"  he  said,  "and 
I  will  speak  to  him  later.  But  Mr.  Buckalew,  you  were 
with  Fannin,  then,  when  he  surrendered?  Heavens, 
man,  you  don't  mean  that  you  gave  them  your  parole?" 

"Parole?"  said  Buckalew  grimly.  "Ducking  bullets 
and  swords  and  lances  was  more  like  it."  Then  he 
told  them  of  the  massacre,  and  as  he  did  so,  the  starved 
haggard  faces  of  the  army  blanched,  and  shades  of  horror 
and  anger  came  and  went,  and  here  and  there  a  man 
shuddered,  and  sucked  in  his  breath. 

"Now  we  will  fight!"  they  cried. 

Houston  purpled  with  rage,  and  the  veins  at  his 
temples  swelled  and  throbbed.  "And  by  Sant'  Ana's 


"THE  RUNAWAY  SCRAPE"  389 

orders,    eh?"   he   demanded.     But   suddenly   he   flung 
up  his  arms,  and  gave  vent  in  his  voice  of  thunder: 

"  'Say,  mighty  father  !  shall  we  scourge  this  pride, 
And  drive  from  fight  the  impetuous  homicide?'  " 

"Yes,  yes!"  rang  the  echo.  "And  now,  general, 
now!" 

"And  we'll  find  him,"  cried  Buckalew,  "down  at  San 
Felipe,  this  very  minute." 

"Just  what  Deaf  Smith  said.     Now,  general,  now!" 

It  was  well  for  us  that  there  was  one  good  military 
head  in  Texas.  But  Houston  was  sorely  tempted,  for 
his  wild  hot  blood  was  now  at  boiling,  yet  he  knew  that 
we  could  not  survive  a  second  battle.  He  must  stake 
all  on  just  the  one,  and  he  alone  was  responsible. 

"No,  no,  boys,  not  quite  yet,"  he  said,  "Still,  you 
might  just  keep  in  mind  that 

'  Jove  but  prepares  to  strike  the  fiercer  blow.' 

Now  then,  the  first  thing  is  to  cross  the  river.  Some 
of  you  there  help  me  get  this  sister  out  of  the  mud." 

He  meant  the  mired  cannon.  She  was  one  of  two 
six-pounders  just  received  from  the  citizens  of  Cincin- 
nati, sent  to  us  as  hollow- ware,  and  christened  the  Twin 
Sisters.  Until  these  brass  recruits  arrived,  the  Army 
of  Freedom  had  been  an  army  without  artillery. 

"Hurry  up,"  he  called  in  cheery  good  nature,  "these 
poor  oxen  and  I  can't  do  all  the  work.  It's  only  down 
the  bank  to  the  steamboat,  you  know." 

The  steamboat  was  a  little  stern-wheeler  that  they 
had  found  here  loading  cotton. 

"And  then  what?"  asked  the  sullen  men. 

"Then  you'll  all  be  captains,  as  you  think  you  should 
be." 


39o  THE  LONE  STAR 

"But  do  we  make  the  Brazos  the  dead-line,  that's 
what  we  want  to  know?" 

The  Commander-in-Chief  bit  his  lip,  yet  glanced  over 
them  patiently.  But  a  genius  of  patience  would  have 
found  it  hard  to  deny  this  fight-thirsty  band. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we  might  wait  across  there  a  few 
days  longer  for  the  Redlanders,  and  when  they  hear  of 
this  Goliad  business  in  the  States,  there'll  be  thousands 
of  volunteers  coming  down." 

"Hadn't  we  better  go  up  there  and  get  'em?"  sneered 
one  mutinous  spirit. 

"  Now  that's  enough  for  you,  sir! "  thundered  Houston. 
"Put  your  shoulder  to  that  wheel.  At  once,  I  say!" 

The  man  obeyed,  yet  only  because  he  was  a  good 
patriot. 

"Depend  on  it,  gentleman,"  Houston  reassured  them, 
"that  we  are  not  going  any  further  east." 

At  that  they  all  sprang  willingly  to  break  camp,  and 
we  made  our  new  camp  across  the  river.  Heavy  rains 
had  turned  the  bottoms  into  a  marsh,  and  water  sur- 
rounded us  on  all  sides.  There  was  not  a  single  tent, 
and  yet  we  had  to  rig  up  a  hospital  on  account  of  the 
measles  having  broken  out  among  us.  We  killed  what 
beeves  we  could  find,  and  ate  the  meat  without  salt  or 
bread.  We  cut  up  horseshoes  and  old  iron  and  tied 
the  pieces  in  bags  for  canister.  But  at  least  we  did  have 
the  strange  flag  with  the  lone  white  star,  and  that  flag 
was  our  army's  equipment. 

For  a  week  we  camped  here  at  Groce's  Retreat,  as 
the  plantation  was  called,  and  still  the  volunteers  from 
the  eastern  settlements  never  arrived.  But  vigilant 
Deaf  Smith,  the  omniscience  and  very  providence  of  the 
campaign,  brought  in  startling  news.  Santa  Ana  had 
captured  a  boat  somewhere  below  San  Felipe,  and  with 
a  thousand  of  his  choicest  troops,  had  crossed  the  river. 


"THE  RUNAWAY  SCRAPE"  391 

"Then,"  said  Houston,  grandiloquently,  consolingly,  "he 
is  treading  the  soil  on  which  he  is  to  be  conquered." 

Santa  Ana,  however,  was  not  worrying  about  that.  He 
would  come  back  at  his  leisure  and  smoke  us  out,  but 
for  the  present  he  and  his  thousand  men  were  hurry- 
ing south  to  surprise  and  hang  the  Texan  Government 
at  Harrisburg.  I  thought  at  once  of  Gritton,  because 
Gritton  was  at  Harrisburg,  and  no  doubt  he  had  kept 
Santa  Ana  advised.  It  was  imperative,  now,  that  I 
should  reveal  the  spy's  true  character  to  our  general. 

Houston  had  not  favoured  me  as  yet  with  that  talk 
which  he  had  threatened  under  his  ominous  frown,  but 
incidentally  I  gave  him  the  opportunity  now.  I  found 
him  at  his  headquarters,  which  means  that  he  was  sitting 
straddle  of  a  log,  with  each  foot  on  a  little  pile  of  bark 
to  keep  them  off  the  wet  ground.  His  old  black  coat 
was  buttoned  with  collar  turned  up,  and  his  old  white 
hat  Was  pulled  down  over  his  eyes.  He  was  writing 
a  despatch,  using  the  log  for  a  table.  The  despatch  was 
in  reply  to  a  taunting  letter  of  criticism  from  the  acting- 
secretary  of  war.  I  told  him  my  whole  story  of  the 
felon  Gritton,  of  Gritton's  revelations  at  the  fandango, 
even  of  his  note  to  me  in  the  Alamo.  I  had  to  tell  it  all, 
in  order  that  Houston  might  be  warned  and  prevent 
other  disasters  to  Texas  through  this  man's  villainy. 
I  knew  that  I  could  trust  to  his  honour  to  forget  Nan's 
name  in  the  matter. 

"But  you  have  no  proofs,"  he  said  dryly. 

"You  don't  believe  me,  then?" 

"I  do,  though,  every  word,  and  I  will  send  Deaf 
Smith  to  Harrisburg  at  once  to  take  your  friend  Gritton 
before  Sant'  Ana  can  arrive  there.  This  scaly  serpent 
that  we  have  warmed  at  our  bosom  shall  do  us  no  more 
harm,  but  what  of  his  deserts,  sir,  what  of  his  deserts? 
I  can't  shoot  him  without  proof." 


392  THE  LONE  STAR 

But  I  did  not  want  Gritton  shot,  for  I  should  never 
be  able  to  convince  myself  that  I  had  not  wanted  it  on 
personal  grounds. 

"I  see  now,"  said  Houston,  "that  I  have  been  mis- 
taken as  to  yourself.  You  did  deliver  my  orders  to 
Travis  and  Bowie,  to 

'  those  chiefs  of  race  divine,' 

it  seems?" 

For  reply  I  handed  him  those  same  orders,  indorsed 
with  the  signatures  of  Travis  and  Bowie. 

"There  now,  young  Rip,"  said  Houston,  "I'm  sorry 
for  my  first  ill-humour  toward  you,  but  I  always  thought 
Travis  didn't  get  my  orders." 

"That's  all  right,  sir,  but  when  do  we  fight  Santa 
Ana?" 

"You  see  we  are  getting  ready  to  march  at  once." 

"But  where,  sir?" 

"Oh,  what  an  army!  Not  a  man  jack  will  take  a  step 
until  he  knows  where  to." 

"And  not  then,  sir,  if  it's  any  direction  but  south." 

"Almighty  particular  we  are  as  to  the  compass, 
lately." 

"But  Santa  Ana  thinks  we're  afraid  of  him." 

"  What  of  it?  Perhaps  I  have  planned  that  he  should. 
When  a  general  can  dictate  even  his  adversary's 
thoughts,  then  he  can  dictate  the  campaign  on  both 
sides.  Well?" 

Well,  he  had  manipulated  the  whole  thing  superbly. 
He  had  inveigled  Santa  Ana  into  a  race  to  catch  him, 
and  the  eager  Santa  Ana  had  left  his  main  armies  on 
the  road,  to  build  rafts  at  the  Colorado  for  wagons  and 
artillery.  And  now,  rash  and  overconfident,  Santa 
Ana  had  even  divided  his  advance  forces,  and  was  now 
lured  to  our  side  of  the  Brazos  with  only  a  thousand 


"THE  RUNAWAY  SCRAPE"  393 

men.  I  opened  my  eyes  in  wonder  over  Houston's 
magnificent  craft.  It  "was  like  Napoleon's  One  Hundred 
Days  over  again.  But  the  finest  of  all  was  his  courage 
to  play  the  runaway  Fabius.  With  never  a  council  of 
war,  but  alone  responsible,  he  left  to  desolation  and  the 
enemy  all  our  settlements  from  the  Colorado  to  the 
Brazos,  though  the  settlements  were  largely  the  homes 
of  the  very  men  in  his  ranks.  And  that  he  had  held 
these  men  together,  there  was  the  miracle.  But  they 
had  taken,  now,  the  very  last  step  backward. 

"Might  I  ask,  sir,"  I  said  earnestly,  "which  way  we 
march?" 

This  time  he  did  not  resent  being  questioned.  The 
thirst  for  battle  was  deep  in  his  own  eyes. 

"Go  and  tell  that  blessed  army,"  he  said,  "that  we 
march  south,  that  we  march  for  Harrisburg,  and  that 
the  faster  they  march,  the  sooner 

'  the  day  shall  come,  that  great  avenging  day.' 

Now  go,  because  I  must  pack  yet." 

He  must  pack  !  His  papers  and  an  extra  shirt 
crammed  into  his  saddle  wallet,  this  was  his  packing. 
We  did  not  envy  him  the  extra  shirt.  It  was  befitting 
that  the  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Republic  should 
have  more  than  the  rest  of  us. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE    EVE    OP   SAN   JACINTO 

OUR  one  fife  and  drum  played  valiantly,  and  we 
followed  the  flag  of  the  white  star  that  was  no 
longer  strange.  Horses  and  men  tugged  at  the  two 
six-pounders,  which  mired  repeatedly  to  the  hubs.  For 
the  rest  we  might  have  been  a  tattered  mob,  rather  than 
an  army.  I  could  appreciate  now  their  sufferings  on 
the  dreary  march  to  the  Brazos.  But  there  was  this 
change,  hope  instead  of  gloom,  and  that  made  all  the 
difference  in  the  world.  We  were 

"  fate,  and  fierce  Achilles,  close  behind." 

Houston's  inspiring  words  were  ever  resounding  up  and 
down  the  column.  It  was  he  who  got  us  up  in  the 
morning  before  daylight.  It  was  he,  most  of  all,  and 
foremost,  who  shunned  no  martial  toil.  In  only  two 
days  and  a  half,  by  forced  marching,  we  made  nearly 
sixty  miles,  and  halted  on  Buffalo  Bayou  opposite  Har- 
risburg,  down  in  our  balmy  coast  country.  The  high 
banks  of  the  narrow,  deep  bayou  were  fringed  with 
magnolias,  live-oaks,  and  thickets  of  gorgeous  flowers. 
And  the  sun  was  shining  too,  at  last. 

Buffalo  Bayou  flows  southeasterly  into  Gal  vest  on 
Bay,  and  we  were  on  the  north  bank.  Opposite,  we 
saw  Harrisburg,  but  Harrisburg  in  ruins.  Santa  Ana 
had  been  there  already,  as  we  learned  from  Deaf  Smith. 
But  the  Government  had  escaped,  and  Santa  Ana  had 
pursued  on  south  to  the  coast,  in  time  to  see  the  Govern- 
ment pushing  off  in  a  sailboat  for  Galveston  Island. 

394 


THE  EVE  OF  SAN  JACINTO  395 

"Now  we  have  got  him!"  shouted  the  Army  of  Free- 
dom. Certain  unalterable  little  matters  of  Geography 
dawned  on  them.  Santa  Ana  could  go  no  further  south, 
because  of  the  bay.  Going  there,  he  had  crossed  Vince's 
bridge  over  Vince's  Bayou,  which  flowed  into  Buffalo 
Bayou.  He  would  have  to  come  back  over  this  bridge 
to  strike  either  north  or  west.  On  the  east  the  Buffalo 
Bayou  cut  him  off,  except  at  a  ferry  below  its  junction 
with  the  San  Jacinto,  almost  where  it  empties  into  the 
bay.  We  would  have  to  cross  Buffalo  Bayou  then,  fol- 
low it  down  stream,  and  get  to  the  ferry  ahead  of 
Santa  Ana.  We  set  to  work  building  rafts. 

As  soon  as  Deaf  Smith  had  finished  his  reports,  Buck- 
alew  questioned  him  about  Nan,  and  I  about  Gritton. 
The  scout's  leathery  old  face  clouded.  His  wife  and 
Nan  and  some  other  women  folks  had  vanished  from 
Harrisburg  before  Santa  Ana  arrived,  even  before  the 
Government  left,  and  Deaf  Smith  could  not  learn  where 
they  had  gone.  The  same  was  true  of  Gritton.  But 
I  was  not  surprised.  Gritton  knew  that  Santa  Ana  was 
coming,  and  of  course  he  had  taken  Nan  and  her  com- 
panion to  a  place  of  safety.  Yet  I  felt  that  he  had  not 
gone  far.  Gritton  would  still  want  to  serve  his  master 
by  keeping  him  advised  of  our  movements. 

Buffalo  Bayou  was  running  banks  full,  and  it  took 
us  all  the  next  day  to  cross.  We  had  to  leave  behind  a 
number  of  our  men  who  were  sick  with  the  measles; 
and  with  only  an  ammunition  wagon,  the  Twin  Sisters, 
and  rations  for  three  days,  we  marched  until  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  By  that  time  we  were  falling  in  our 
tracks,  and  Houston  reluctantly  ordered  a  halt.  We 
dropped  on  the  prairie  as  we  were,  and  slept.  At  dawn 
a  muffled  drum  tap  roused  us.  We  were  cooking  meat 
on  sticks  when  our  scouts  came  in  with  word  that  they 
had  surprised  some  of  the  enemy  at  the  ferry  below, 


396  THE  LONE  STAR 

and  had  captured  from  them  a  flatboat  loaded  with 
plunder.  That  scout  service  of  ours  was  the  best  an 
army  ever  had,  and  Deaf  Smith,  their  chief,  was  peerless. 
He  had  waylaid  Santa  Ana's  courier,  despatches  and  all, 
and  we  learned  from  them  everything  we  wanted  to 
know.  We  learned  that  Santa  Ana  had  turned  east- 
ward, and  was  marching  toward  the  ferry.  We  dropped 
our  chunks  of  beef  in  the  fire,  and  we  never  stopped  until 
we  got  to  that  ferry,  several  hours  later.  The  uncon- 
quered  Napoleon  of  the  West  was  nowhere  in  sight. 
We  had  beaten  him  to  it,  and  we  made  camp  in  the 
grove  of  live-oaks  fringing  the  bank.  Houston  mused 
aloud: 

"  'Just  there  the  impetuous  homicide  shall  stand, 
There  cease  his  battle,  and  there  feel  our  hand.'  " 

Our  grove  of  live-oaks  conveniently  hid  us  from  the 
prairie  that  stretched  in  front  of  us  westward,  and 
across  this  prairie  Santa  Ana  must  march  toward  us  to 
reach  the  bayou.  The  bayou,  though,  was  back  of  us, 
and  we  were  therefore  between  him  and  the  ferry. 
Vince's  bridge  lay  to  the  north,  and  the  bay,  flanked  by 
a  marsh,  lay  to  the  south.  There  was  some  timber 
on  the  edge  of  the  marsh,  and  several  mottes  on  the 
prairie.  The  latter  were  only  a  hundred  yards  or  so 
from  our  grove,  and  we  promised  ourselves  that  they 
would  come  in  handy.  Altogether  it  was  a  very  desir- 
able and  very  compact  battle  field ;  provided,  of  course, 
we  did  not  have  to  retreat  into  the  bayou. 

"Here  they  come!"  cried  a  lookout  from  a  treetop. 

An  officer  cursed  up  at  him.     "Shut  up,  will  you!" 

Houston's  aide,  our  chief  of  ordnance,  had  the  Twin 
Sisters  wheeled  to  the  edge  of  the  grove. 

"Why  the  devil  don't  they  hurry?"  men  grumbled 
around  me.  Their  fists  were  clenching  and  opening. 


THE  EVE  OF  SAN  JACINTO  397 

Two  miles  across  the  prairie,  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 
the  Mexicans  were  coming.  They  straggled  toward  us 
irregularly,  suspecting  nothing.  I  made  out  their 
black-glazed  fighting  caps,  and  remembered  the  waves 
that  had  swept  up  the  walls  of  the  Alamo.  I  remem- 
bered the  line  of  pointed  muskets  we  had  faced  at  Goliad. 
There  were  cavalry,  too,  cavalry  with  lances,  and  I 
remembered  Goliad  again.  I  looked  around  me  and 
saw  those  fists  clenching  and  opening.  I  felt  better 
then.  One  of  our  gunners  lighted  a  match. 

"Damn  you,  no,  not  yet!"  cried  Houston. 

But  the  man  had  fired  the  gun  already.  The  Mexicans 
halted,  and  stared  at  our  grove  in  consternation.  A 
striking  figure  on  a  white  horse  was  knocking  men  right 
and  left  to  get  to  the  rear.  He  was  in  a  frantic  state, 
so  I  knew  he  must  be  Santa  Ana.  Directly  they  began 
to  advance  warily,  and  sent  ahead  a  long  twelve-pounder, 
the  only  cannon  they  had,  and  a  skirmish  line  of  infantry. 

The  Twin  Sisters  sprinkled  them  with  scrap  iron,  and 
they  gave  way. 

"Let's  shoo  'em  clear  back!"  yelled  one  of  our 
colonels,  a  young  Kentuckian  named  Sydney  Sherman. 

This  Colonel  Sherman  went  to  Houston  with  his  plan, 
and  Houston  consented.  Sherman  was  to  keep  out  of 
musket  range,  and  to  reconnoitre  only.  The  Mexicans 
were  fortifying  about  a  mile  in  front  of  us,  and  Houston 
wished  to  learn  more  of  their  position.  Sherman  agreed, 
and  called  for  as  many  volunteers  as  we  had  horses, 
which  were  not  eighty  altogether.  I  was  so  fortunate 
as  to  be  one  of  those  chosen.  Now  it  happened  that  we 
did  get  under  fire,  all  right.  The  Mexicans,  first  infantry, 
then  cavalry,  ninety  strong,  attended  to  that,  and  I 
have  an  idea  that  Sherman  was  not  adverse,  either. 
The  conflict  was  really  a  pretty  one,  they  with  their 
cannon  showering  grape  on  us  and  a  line  of  infantry 


398  THE  LONE  STAR 

trying  to  cut  us  off,  and  we  driving  their  ninety  cavalry- 
men back  on  their  cannon.  Our  own  infantry  had  to 
deploy  to  help  us  draw  off  without  bringing  on  a  general 
engagement,  and  this  we  did,  though  very  reluctantly, 
and  only  after  orders  were  imperative  and  profane. 

So  ended  the  matter  for  that  day,  but  I  have  yet 
something  to  add,  not  only  because  it  concerned  my 
actions  the  next  day  of  the  battle,  but  also  in  that  it 
affected  my  whole  subsequent  career.  This  began  with 
so  trivial  a  thing  as  the  glances  toward  me  of  my  com- 
rades. During  the  skirmish  we  were  charging  and  lung- 
ing and  parrying  at  so  terrific  a  rate,  and  I  was  so  busy 
myself,  that  I  could  not  suppose  that  any  of  us  had 
time  to  notice  the  others.  Yet  afterward  in  camp, 
when  the  thing  grew  more  pointed,  I  remembered  that 
their  glances  my  vay  had  begun  in  the  heat  of  battle, 
and  that  even  then  they  had  made  me  uneasy,  as  though 
I  were  something  queer  and  uncanny.  If  a  man  looked 
at  me  in  that  bloody  half-hour,  he  was  certain  to  look 
again,  but  with  always  a  sort  of  averted  gaze.  Even 
Colonel  Sherman  himself  caught  the  mania,  and  after 
that  I  felt  his  eyes  also  on  me,  tense  and  puzzled.  Yet 
I  was  doing  no  more  than  slaying  my  fellow-men,  like 
the  rest  of  them.  Then,  when  we  were  back  in  camp, 
they  hovered  around  me  diffidently,  as  though  around 
an  object  fascinating  and  repellent  at  the  same  time. 
My  imagination  and  sensitiveness  exaggerate  this,  no 
doubt,  yet  I  was  certainly  not  craving  frank  comrade- 
ship just  then,  nor  anything  except  that  we  crush  like 
jelly-fish  the  monstrous  assassins  who  had  come  against 
us.  But  nevertheless  I  could  not  help  but  sense  their 
talking  apart  among  themselves,  and  hastily  looking 
away  whenever  I  passed  near.  I  saw  Sherman  making 
his  report  to  Houston  beside  the  general's  camp-fire, 
and  even  these  two  were  talking  in  whispers  like  the 


THE  EVE  OF  SAN  JACINTO  399 

others.  Sherman  raised  his  head  and  saw  me.  Then 
Houston  did  too,  and  it  was  certainly  an  odd  trick  of 
the  imagination  if  there  was  not  a  shadow  of  the  identical 
expression  on  Houston's  face.  I  swung  angrily  on  my 
heel,  to  get  away  by  myself,  but  Houston  called 
me. 

I  went,  and  Sherman  drew  apart  with  some  others 
of  the  late  charge,  and  they  stood  and  waited  in  an 
oppressing  silence.  Houston's  brow  knitted  between 
his  eyes  into  something  Jove-like.  That  look  of  his 
was  keen  and  searching,  and  as  he  grew  satisfied,  there 
was  less  and  less  favour  in  his  look.  What  had  I  done? 
What  could  I  have  done?  But  my  jaws  were  locked, 
and  as  I  held  his  gaze  waiting  for  the  accusation,  the 
look  in  my  eyes  must  have  been  as  hard  as  the  steel  in 
my  own  soul. 

"Mr.  Ripley,"  he  spoke  brusquely,  as  though  forced 
to  it  by  duty,  "Mr.  Ripley,  you  will  lead  the  cavalry 
to-morrow." 

My  jaw  dropped,  and  I  stared  at  him. 

"I  have  just  learned,"  he  explained  sharply,  "that 
General  Cos  has  joined  the  enemy  with  five  or  six  hun- 
dred more  men.     That  makes  sixteen  hundred  to  our 
seven  hundred.     Now,  by  the  Almighty,  we  must  use 
whatever    instrument    that    comes    to    our    hand. 
Lucifer  himself  were  here,  I  would  use  him.     But  Mr. 
Sherman  just  tells  me— Sherman  regularly  commands 
in  the  infantry,  you  know— he  just  tells  me  that  if 
want  a— a  demo*r-to  lead  the  cavalry,  that  you  are 

the  man." 

"I— I  don't  want  to  lead  the  cavalry,"  I  replied. 
"Ha,  perhaps,  0  soul  of  battles,  you  want  the  army 

then?" 

"Nothing,  sir,  nor  anyone." 
"Why  not,  sir?" 


400  THE  LONE  STAR 

"Because  there's  too  much  at  stake  to  stake  any  of 
it  on  me.  We've  got  to  win." 

"  But  it's  for  that  hell-bent  spirit  of  yours  that  I'm  ask- 
ing you.  You'll  lead  those  boys  to-morrow,  sir,  because 
I  know  you  would  lead  them  plum'  into  Hades,  if  neces- 
sary. Refuse,  and  by  the  Lord  Harry,  I'll  have  you 
court-martialled  and  shot  at  once.  Do  you  understand  ? " 
"Not  under  a  threat,  sir." 

"Anyway  you  like.  Blot  out  the  threat.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"I  never  meant  disobedience.  I  do  protest,  though, 
against  the  wisdom  of  it." 

"  Bah!  Protest  overruled.  From  now  on  the  cavalry 
reports  to  you  as  colonel." 

"Very  well,  sir.     When  do  you  call  a  council  of  war?" 
"Have  I  had  the  habit  of  calling  any,  sir?" 
"No,  sir.     But  you  might  consider  this — 
"  Never  mind  what  I  might  consider — But  what  is  it? " 
"That  the  bridge  over  Vince's  is  the  only  road  to 
escape  out  of  here." 
"For  us,  yes." 

"For  them  too,  sir.     Why  not  cut  Vince's  bridge?" 
"  Pluto's  shades  of  the  damned,  but  you  are  a  demon! " 
"And  then  no  more  reinforcements  could  reach  them," 
I  urged. 

"True  enough,  but  that's  not  the  real  thing  on  your 
mind.  You're  thinking  of  sixteen  hundred  singed 
wildcats  in  a  cage,  and  no  getting  out." 

"And  Santa  Ana  among  them.  He  will  be  the  first 
to  run  for  Vince's  bridge." 

"What,  the  great  earth-shaker  himself? 

'Too  mean  to  fall  by  martial  power,' 

eh?     Ah,   gentlemen, 

'  The  feeble  props  of  human  trust," 


THE  EVE  OF  SAN  JACINTO  401 

as  for  instance,"  he  added,  "that  bridge  at  Vince's. 
You  do  not  know,  Colonel  Ripley,  that  Deaf  Smith 
has  his  orders  to  chop  down  that  particular  prop." 

"Now  it  looks,"  I  replied,  "as  if  there  might  be  other 
demons  in  camp." 

"And  you  may  go  with  him,  if  you  like." 
"Thank  you,  sir.  I  will,  with  pleasure." 
Armed  with  axes,  and  to  the  teeth  besides,  we  mounted 
and  set  out,  Deaf  Smith  and  six  of  his  hardy  company 
of  scouts,  and  myself.  We  passed  within  gunshot  of  the 
Mexican  camp,  and  took  the  road  to  Harrisburg  along 
the  Buffalo  Bayou  for  eight  miles.  Here  we  came  to 
Vince's  plantation.  There  were  lights  in  his  old  double 
log-house,  but  we  circled  clear  of  it,  lest  there  should 
be  Mexicans  there.  Then,  around  to  the  road  again, 
with  the  Spanish  moss  brushing  our  cheeks,  we  gained 
the  bridge  itself.  The  bridge  was  of  huge,  rough  cedar, 
a  homely  structure  enough  on  which  to  hinge  the  destiny 
of  a  republic.  The  scouts  took  their  axes,  and  began 
chopping  the  heavy  timbers.  A  stone's  throw  away, 
off  the  road  under  the  live-oaks,  I  stood  guard  with 
the  horses.  The  blows  of  chopping  echoed  dully,  but 
to  me  they  sounded  as  though  they  must  rouse  the 
Mexican  camp  eight  miles  distant.  After  a  time  I 
heard,  or  thought  I  heard,  swift  footfalls.  Then  a 
fleet  shadow  sped  past  me  up  the  road  toward  the  house. 
The  vague  rush  through  the  dark  offered  no  target,  and 
I  could  not  tell,  at  first,  but  that  the  man  was  one  of 
our  scouts  returning  from  the  bridge.  There  was 
nothing  except  to  drop  the  halters  of  our  horses  and 
give  chase.  The  man  was  too  far  ahead  to  hear  me, 
nor  did  I  even  eee  him  until  he  reached  the  house, 
where  he  flung  open  the  door,  entered  through  a  yellow 
flood  of  light,  and  slammed  the  door  to  again, 
approached  cautiously,  and  reconnoitred.  A  window 


402  THE  LONE  STAR 

of  the  room  was  open,  and  I  looked  in,  and  there  was 
my  man  sitting  at  a  kitchen  table  with  paper  and  gold- 
mounted  pencil,  and  dashing  off  something  at  a  furious 
rate.  Yet  even  as  he  wrote,  he  stroked  his  inverted 
harp  of  a  moustache.  For  all  his  alert  haste,  he  looked 
lazy,  stupid  as  ever,  as  dense  as  lead,  yet  to  cut,  as  hard 
as  a  diamond.  Now  Gritton  meant  to  warn  Santa  Ana 
about  our  destroying  the  bridge.  This  much  was  easy 
to  guess.  Yet,  quite  as  evidently,  he  did  not  intend  to 
go  himself;  which  was  because  he  did  not  want  to  betray 
his  whereabouts  to  Santa  Ana.  And  why?  Why, 
unless  his  whereabouts  were  also  Nan's? 

Then  Nan  herself,  leaving  the  others  in  another  part 
of  the  house,  appeared  here  in  the  kitchen.  The  tan  was 
in  her  cheeks  still,  but  there  was  only  a  hint  of  the  roses 
left.  Nan  was  in  a  stress  of  mind,  and  the  stress  had 
dated  from  weeks  past,  evidently.  Her  black  eyes  lighted 
as  she  saw  him  there  writing.  She  passed  behind  him 
casually,  but  in  the  action  darted  a  quick,  hungry 
look  at  the  paper.  He  shifted  his  shoulder  between 
her  and  the  paper,  and  smiled  languidly. 

"To  our  people,  I  imagine?"  she  said. 

He  folded  the  paper,  and  glanced  up  indolently  out 
of  his  bulging  eyes. 

"Quite-ah — probably,"  he  replied. 

"You  told  me  our  people  were  nowhere  near  here  yet. 
But  I  heard  shooting  this  afternoon." 

"  Re-ahly  now,  Miss  Buckalew  ?  You  have  good  ears." 
He  paused,  listening,  and  the  blows  of  chopping  came 
very  faintly.  "Ah  yes,  they  may  be  very  near.  For 
that  reason  I  am  writing." 

"For  what  reason,  Mr.  Gritton?" 

"Your  friends,  and  the  friends  of  this  houseful  of 
Women,  they  would  like  to  know  you  are  here." 

"Let  me  see."     She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  paper. 


THE  EVE  OF  SAN  JACINTO  403 

"Dee-uh  me,  but  there  are  military  affairs  here  too, 
and  they  are  not-ah — affairs  for  young  ladies.  This 
means  though,"  he  added,  with  a  slight  tightening  of 
his  drooping  mouth,  "the  last  stroke  in  the  acquirement 
of  a-ah — princely  competence — for  your  humble  ser- 
vitor. And  then " 

"I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Gritton,  but  really,  my 
concern  for  your  private  affairs  is  not  such " 

"Not  even  if  there's  a-ah — title — in  England,  in- 
volved?" 

Her  lip  curled  frankly.  She  did  not  pretend  to  mis- 
understand his  meaning.  I  could  hear  the  dull  blows 
of  axes.  If  Deaf  Smith  would  only  hurry,  and  come! 

"To  be  sure,  a  title,"  he  repeated.  "'Sir'  and  'Lady,' 
y'  know."  He  rose,  but  seemingly  he  was  as  anxious 
to  stay  and  have  it  out  with  her,  as  to  get  away  and 
deliver  the  paper  to  some  messenger  in  waiting  outside. 
For  her  own  part,  she  was  as  anxious  to  detain  him  and 
that  paper,  even  though  she  did  have  to  hear  him  to 
the  end. 

"Let  me  see  it,"  she  repeated. 

"Think,  a  title." 

She  reached  for  the  paper. 

"  And-ah — myself." 

She  laughed,  but  there  was  never  more  bitterness 
in  mirth. 

His  puffy  lower  lip  hung  incredulously.  "You— you 
have  laughed  all  along?"  he  stammered.  There  was 
a  dent  in  his  shell,  after  all. 

"Why,  of  course!" 

"And  you  never  once " 

"Oh — oh!  It  was-ah — too  preposterous,  yf  know," 
and  she  looked  at  him  as  at  a  curious  specimen.  I  think 
she  even  made  the  gesture  of  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff. 
"Too  preposterous,  y'  know,  even  if  I  haven't  seen 


4o4  THE  LONE  STAR 

pretty  clearly,  Mr.  Gritton,  that  you  are — that  you  are 
a  spy." 

I  hoped  now  that  Deaf  Smith  and  his  men  would 
take  their  time. 

The  Englishman  had  been  groping  ludicrously  for  an 
explanation  of  the  girl's  incomprehensible  and  stupefy- 
ing aversion.  Now,  in  her  accusation,  he  thought  he 
understood. 

"You  have  suspected,  then,"  he  ventured,  "that  I 
am-ah — employed  by  Sant'  Ana?«" 

"Oh,  are  you?"  Her  feigned  surprise  was  magnificent. 

"For  which,  only  to-morrow,  I  receive  the — the  pay 
of  an  army.  And  I  might  add  that  I  have  worked  so 
hard  for-ah,  your  sake,  y'know." 

Her  manner  grew  dangerous,  "I  wish  you  would  not 
mention  it,"  she  said. 

His  drooping  sandy  lashes  lifted.  "Even,"  he 
drawled,  "even  if  on  the  other  hand  I  have  repeatedly 
risked  this-ah — splendid  sum  on  account  of  you?" 

She  tapped  her  foot  impatiently.  But  at  least  he 
Was  being  detained. 

"The  first  time,"  he  went  on  evenly,  "was  precisely 
the  first  time  I  saw  you.  It  was  then  that  I  saved  your 
father,  though  I  had  been  on  his  trail  for  weeks.  He 
Was,  y'  know,  on  the  proscribed  list." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"And  then,"  said  Gritton,  giving  his  moustache  a 
jerk,  "your  father  took  Goliad  from  us." 

"And  you  were  so  sorry  that  I  neglected  to  tell  you  of 
his  intentions.  But  Harry — Harry  knew  that  he  was 
coming,  and  helped  him  and  the  others  take  Goliad." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,  a  brilliant  lad,  Harry.  I  could 
always  count  on  him  to  play  into  my  hands.  There  at 
Goliad,  for  example,  when  I  inspired  that-ah — inventory 
visit  on  Mrs.  Long,  you  remember.  I  meant  to  force 


THE  EVE  OF  SAN  JACINTO  405 

you  and  Auntie  Jane  to  leave,  under-ah — my  escort. 
But  it  was  our  late  friend  Harry  who  proposed  it,  who 
urged  it,  and  generously  stayed  behind." 

"After  which,"  mused  Nan,  "you  blundered  across 
the  Mexicans,  and  they  took  us  to  San  Antone." 

"Also  deep  calculation,"  said  Gritton.  "After  the 
Texians  should  give  up  the  siege,  the  Mexicans  would 
take  us  to  Mexico." 

"But  the  Texians  did  not  give  up  the  siege." 

"And  that  is  where  I  risked  my  princely  competence, 
and  my  neck  too,  for  you.  Fearing  that  Cos  would 
hold  you  as  a  hostage  for  your  father,  I  induced  the 
Texians  to  assault  the  town.  So  I  lost  the  town  for 
Sant'  Ana,  that  you  might  be  rescued." 

"Thank  you  again,  this  time  for  the  Texians.  But 
your  brazen  confession,  sir — Of  course,  after  you  win 
the  final  victory  for  the  Mexicans  to-morrow,  and  can 
join  them  openly,  you  may  be  proud  to  have  people 
know  the  detestable  character  of  your  genius— But 
your  confession,  oh,  what  light  does  it  throw  on  Harry's 
poor  wild  story  of  your  note  to  him  in  the  Alamo!" 

"Rather  a  clever  stroke  of  mine,  don't  you  think?" 

But  there  were  tears,  not  admiration,  in  Nan's  eyes. 

"  I  called  him  back,  there  at  Seguin's,"  she  murmured. 
"And  yet  I  let  him  go.  You  say  he  went  to  Goliad?" 

"Where  the-ah — worms — have  had  him  long  since." 

She  dropped  into  the  chair  he  had  left,  and  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands.  One  shudder  after  another  passed 
over  her.  Gritton,  with  feet  apart,  stroked  his  mous- 
tache and  watched  her.  Yet  there  was  a  furrow  of 
impatience  between  his  lazy  eyes. 

"Oh  I  say  now,  Miss  Buckalew,  why  all  this-ah- 
adoration?     It's  only-ah-posthumous,  y'  know,  espe- 
cially as  you  chose  quite  differently  while  he  was  stil 
living.     For   example " 


406  THE  LONE  STAR 

Nan  raised  a  pair  of  moist,  wide-open  eyes,  and  gazed 
at  him  wonderingly. 

" — for  example,  the  night  the  Texians  rescued  us  in 
San  Antonio,  and  there  was  but  one  seat  left  in  the 
carriage  beside  you.  You  remember  his-ah — unpro- 
voked assault  on  me  as  I  was  about  to  take  that  seat? 
You  called  to  him.  He  released  me.  And  I — took 
the  seat.  Was  not  that  an  indication  of  your-ah — 
choice?" 

"Oh — oh!"  Nan  gasped  in  amazement. 

Deaf  Smith  might  take  his  time.  I  wanted  to  hear 
more  of  this. 

"Now  I  say  the  deuce,"  said  Gritton.  "But  it  was 
an  indication,  y'  know." 

"Oh,  what  stupidity!"  cried  Nan,  "And  couldn't 
you  see  that  I  was  always  trying  to  goad  Harry  into 
asserting  himself?  Each  time  he  endured  a  rebuff  from 
you — Oh,  how  I  hated  you! — you  remember  I  said, 
'Another  time,  Harry.'  But  how  could  I  know  that  I 
Was  playing  with  fire?  How  could  I  know  that  that 
kind  of  a  man  is  the  most  dangerous?  But  I  learned. 
I  learned  that  night  you  speak  of,  when  my  taunts  had 
their  effect,  and  he  caught  you  by  the  throat  there  at 
the  carriage  door  as  if  you  were  a  snarling  cur." 

The  furrow  in  Gritton 's  brow  deepened. 

"Then  why  did  you  stop  him?" 

"Because  there  came  over  his  face  the  most  awful 
change,  and  I  was  frightened,  though  not,"  she  added 
concisely,  "not  on  your  account,  sir.  His  had  always 
been  a  face  that  I — I — Well,  no  matter,  but  I  could  not 
bear  to  see  it  changing  before  my  eyes  into  that  hard, 
murderous  one,  and  I  cried  out  to  him.  Yet  wasn't  I 
astounded,  though,  that  just  a  word  from  me  should 
bring  him  back  to  his  old  self!  But  when  he  fell  back 
so  ashamed,  and  let  you  take  the  seat,  I  never  was  so 


THE  EVE  OF  SAN  JACINTO  407 

angry  at  him  in  all  my  life.  Now,  Mr.  Gritton,  can 
you  still  believe  that  I  meant  the  seat  for  you?" 

Merciful  Heaven,  if  girls  are  not  incomprehensible  I 
To  think  that  I  was  resolving  to  get  myself  killed  that 
night  because  she  wanted  the  seat  for  Gritton! 

"And,"  Nan  went  on  sadly,  "when  we  rode  away, 
and  he  stood  there  looking  after  us,  as  docile  and  hurt 
as  a  poor  scolded  collie,  I  think  I  called  to  him,  'An- 
other time,  Harry.'  " 

"Which,"  said  Gritton  with  a  yawn,  "will  never 
come,  y'  know.  Though  for  my  desire  of  surcease  from- 
ah — ennui,  I  regret  that  the  encounter  can  never — I 
say,  y'  know,  I'm  deuced  sorry,  for  now  you  will  go  on 
thinking  that  our  young  friend  would  have  redeemed 
himself,  and  against-ah — your  humble  servitor.  But 
there,  that's  past,  and  my  real  business  to-night — 

He  pulled  on  his  hat,  and  started  for  the  door.  But 
she  was  there  before  him,  as  I  discovered  as  I  myself 
threw  open  the  door  and  entered.  I  had  to  brush  her 
to  one  side,  when  I  should  have  had  my  pistol  ready, 
and  in  doing  that,  I  exposed  my  body  to  Gritton.  He 
fired,  and  there  was  a  sharp  explosive  sting  through  my 
head,  which  reminded  me  dazedly  of  a  jumping  tooth- 
ache. But  the  need  to  get  that  paper  was  opiate  enough. 
I  knew  that  the  room  had  filled  with  excited  women 
and  children  at  the  report,  but  I  knew  nothing  else  until 
Gritton  was  bent  backward  over  the  table,  and  the 
pink  floridity  of  his  skin  was  going  purple  under  my 
fingers  at  his  throat. 

"Now  you  may  drop  that  paper." 

My  words  hissed  thickly,  or  rather  gurgled,  through 
a  mouth  full  of  blood. 

"Drop  it,  or  I'll  kill  you." 

But  Gritton  would  have  died,  I  think,  still  clutching 
the  paper. 


408  THE  LONE  STAR 

"I'll — I'll  slap  you,"  I  said  blindly,  knowing  only 
that  I  could  not  kill  him.  "Across  the  mouth,"  I 
added,  and  drew  back  my  hand.  "Quick,  drop  it!" 

And  then,  his  fist  did  open,  and  the  crumpled  note 
rolled  out  on  the  table. 

"Read  it,  Nan,"  I  said. 

The  girl  had  been  hopping  up  and  down,  and  wring- 
ing her  hands  in  an  anguish  to  help.  She  had  seized 
the  note  already.  She  read  aloud: 

"  S.  A.,  per  courier. 

Vince's  bridge  destroyed.  Advise  repairing  at  once,  if  you 
expect  reinforcements.  G." 

.*  "What  I  thought,"  I  said.     "Now  tear  it  up." 

"But  why,  Harry?     Why?" 

"Because  it  will  mean  hanging.  Don't  you  see,  it's 
the  proof." 

"Then  I'll  jus'  take  it,"  and  there  was  Deaf  Smith 
himself  and  his  scouts.  He  closed  his  hand  over  Nan's 
even  as  she  tore  the  note  once  across.  Deaf  Smith 
wrenched  it  from  her. 

"  'Nough  yet  for  hanging,"  he  said. 

Gritton's  shot  had  brought  them  to  me,  and  now  they 
took  the  spy  in  charge.  Nan  herself  did  the  same  by 
me.  Blood  was  gushing  from  my  mouth  and  left  cheek, 
soaking  my  shirt  to  the  skin.  Gritton's  bullet  had 
plowed  through  my  front  teeth  and  out  again  through 
the  cheek. 

"It's  all  right,  Nan,"  I  sputtered. 

But  with  her  hands  on  my  shoulders,  she  pushed  me 
into  a  chair.  She  made  the  other  women  bring  a  basin 
of  water  and  tear  a  skirt  into  bandages.  The  hemor- 
rhage seemed  about  finished,  and  I  tried  to  rise. 

"Oh,  the  obstinacy  of  him! "  she  cried.  Then  bending 
to  my  ear,  she  whispered,  "Listen,  you  remember  last 


THE  EVE  OF  SAN  JACINTO  409 

Christmas  in  San  Antone,  when  we  all  had  dinner  at 
Deaf  Smith's?" 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  this?" 

"And  you  were  having  so  much  trouble  telling  me 
good-bye?" 

"What  in  the  world " 

"And  Phil  wanted  to  help  you?" 

At  my  brother's  name  I  jumped  up.  She  gave  a 
little  cry  as  she  looked  on  my  face,  and  it  was  around 
my  neck  this  time  that  she  flung  her  arms. 

"Wait,  wait,"  she  murmured.  "You  remember  that 
Phil  whispered  something  to  me  just  before  he  left  us 
together,  and  you  wanted  to  know  what  it  was?" 

"Well?     But  hurry,  Nan,  I  can't " 

"He  whispered,  'Be  good  to  Harry.  Can't  you  see 
how  it  is  with  him,  sis — sister  mine  ? '  And  then  Phil — 
he  rode  away." 

I  put  her  arms  down,  and  started  for  the  door. 

"And — and,"  she  cried  piteously  behind  me,  "I  do 
want  to  be  good  to  you,  Harry." 

I  turned  to  Deaf  Smith.  "We  must  go,"  I  said.  "I 
lead  the  cavalry  into  hell." 

"His  orders,  miss,"  explained  one  of  the  scouts. 

"So  it's  good-bye,  Nan,"  I  said.  I  never  looked  for 
life  beyond  the  next  day's  battle. 

We  returned  speedily  to  camp,  and  reported.  Deaf 
Smith  turned  Gritton  the  spy  over  to  General  Houston, 
which  is  all  that  I  shall  have  to  say  about  Gritton. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

"ONB   ILLUSTRIOUS    DAY" 

EVEN  sleeping  that  night,  on  the  eve  of  battle,  was 
a  desperate  business.  We  could  not  hope  for 
one  additional  man,  and  therefore  all  reinforcement 
must  come  from  within  ourselves.  Accordingly,  with 
double  guards  set  and  frequently  changed,  we  ate  and 
we  slept,  to  win  back  what  we  had  lost  during  two 
days  without  eating  and  sleeping.  The  precious  hours 
of  bivouac,  there  under  the  live-oaks,  with  moss  for 
pillows,  meant  a  redoubling  of  fighting  strength.  Then 
there  was  the  lesson  of  the  Alamo,  that  terrible  sacrifice 
that  might  now  be  utilised.  I  had  learned  in  the  Alamo 
the  desperate  effectiveness  of  few  numbers,  when  every 
man  spends  himself  to  the  last  breath.  I,  the  only 
survivor,  hoped  to  make  that  lesson  avail  us  now.  Then 
the  Alamo  would  yet  prove  the  winning  of  Texas.  To 
enforce  the  lesson,  we  had  destroyed  the  bridge.  No 
muscled  arm  would  falter  as  waste  material.  There 
lacked  as  yet  only  one  thing,  that  the  Mexican  bugles 
should  sound  "No  quarter."  Then  every  Texan  would 
understand,  as  at  the  Alamo. 

The  camp  was  astir  early  the  next  morning,  and 
Wanting  to  know,  every  man  of  the  seven  hundred,  when 
We  should  begin.  And  yet  the  order  for  attack  did  not 
come.  Whatever  deep  design  lurked  in  Houston's  head, 
none  of  us  knew;  but  waiting  any  longer,  or  to  gaze 
across  the  prairie  and  see  the  Mexicans  swarming  behind 
their  barricade,  all  this  was  incentive  to  mutiny.  The 
grumbling  rose  louder  and  louder  throughout  the  camp, 

410 


"  ONE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DAY  "  4n 

until  the  officers  themselves,  seeing  how  matters  were 
drifting,  went  to  Houston  and  suggested  a  council  of 
war.  And  for  once,  Houston  consented.  We  sat 
around  on  logs  under  the  live-oak  where  he  had  made 
his  headquarters.  He  had  slept  here,  with  a  coil  of 
rope  under  his  head.  He  laid  down  a  mud-bespattered 
copy  of  Caesar's  "Commentaries,"  and  looked  us  over 
affably. 

"How  gentlemen,  'all  on  fire  for  fame,'  eh?  Well, 
'war  is  our  business,'  so  what  is  it  to  be?" 

The  question  centred  down  to  this:  Should  we  wait 
any  longer  on  the  Mexicans;  or  should  we  leave  our 
strong  position,  and  attack?  But  when  it  came  to  the 
responsibility  of  deciding,  even  the  most  ardent  hesi- 
tated. As  Colonel  Rusk,  the  Secretary  of  War,  said: 
For  raw  volunteers,  with  only  rifles,  and  not  a  bayonet, 
to  charge  across  the  open  against  veteran,  disciplined 
troops  strongly  entrenched — well,  the  thing  was  unpre- 
cedented in  warfare. 

"Just  the  same,"  said  Houston,  "the  raw  ones  happen 
to  be  Texians." 

And  this  was  the  only  hint  of  a  decision  we  could 
get  from  him.  But  I  knew  that  he  had  decided,  some- 
where in  the  back  of  his  lion-like  head.  I  knew  so  from 
the  way  he  straightened  to  his  towering  height,  just  as 
he  had  that  day  under  the  cottonwoods  in  Arkansas, 
when  we  had  found  him  a  besotted  squaw  man.  He 
was  wrapped  in  an  Indian  blanket  that  time  when  he 
received  the  call  of  the  Texans,  and  there  were  feathers 
in  his  hair,  and  the  heaving  of  his  great  chest  was 
theatric.  But  the  latent  blazing  in  his  heavy  drunken 
eyes  was  prophetic.  He  had  straightened  on  that 
occasion  in  the  new-born  hope  of  decency,  manhood, 
leadership,  regained.  And  now,  this  day  on  the  battle- 
field, he  rose  high  among  us,  to  win  back  these  things 


4i2  THE  LONE  STAR 

by  a  final  blow.  I  knew  his  decision  as  though  he  had 
proclaimed  it  in  so  many  vaulting  phrases.  We  would 
fight,  this  much  was  certain.  But  how,  or  when?  The 
shrewd  humorous  twitch  of  a  smile  about  his  firm 
mouth  left  a  volume  untold. 
"Rest easy,  gentlemen,"  he  said, 

" '  'Tis  not  in  words  the  glorious  strife  can  end.' n 

and  so  dismissed  us. 

My  confidence  that  there  would  be  action  shortly 
spread  among  the  turbulent  horsemen  I  was  to  lead, 
and  we  broiled  our  chunks  of  beef  and  ate  our  dinner  in 
high  spirits.  Afterward  we  lay  around  in  the  shade, 
and  smoked,  and  tried  to  wait.  But  men  were  con- 
stantly going  to  the  edge  of  the  wood  to  take  another 
look  at  the  Mexican  camp,  and  our  grove  was  as  restless 
as  a  hive  of  bees  about  to  swarm. 

"Ain't  scarcely  a  single  movin'  human  critter  over 
there,"  said  one. 

"  Deader'n  they  are  back  in  Mex'co  after  a  good  feed." 

"An'  this  here  nice  warm  April  sun,  it's  shore  enough 
to  make  'em  drowsy." 

"An'  bein'  ez  they're  so  blame  sure  we're  skeered 
to  come  nigh  'em,  they  are  jes' " 

"They're  taking  a  siesta,  that's  what.  Boys,  boys, 
if  the  good  Lord  ain't  helping  us — well,  I  want  to  know! " 

This  thought  began  to  work,  and  after  that  no  man 
could  lie  still  for  a  minute  at  a  time. — "Now's  our 
chance!" — "Why'n  blazes  don't  Sam  Houston  wake 
up?" — The  mutiny  was  smouldering  again,  and  rising, 
to  a  white  flame.  And  then,  at  last,  Houston's  own 
orderly  was  seen  running  here  and  there  among  the 
live-oaks,  hunting  out  each  officer,  and  panting  forth  a 
hurried  word.  He  came  to  us. 

"Orders  to  parade  your  men,"  he  said. 


"ONE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DAY"  413 

The  troopers  sprang  to  their  horses.  They  began 
tightening  girths. 

"Parade?"  muttered  one,  too  pessimistic  to  believe. 

"Can't  you  understand?"  snapped  the  orderly. 
"You're  to  form  in — in  order  of  battle!" 

The  men  smothered  their  involuntary  cheer,  and  the 
cheer  was  low  and  hoarse,  like  the  first  breath  of  a  tor- 
nado. We  of  the  cavalry  leaped  to  our  saddles.  "Keep 
back,"  I  shouted.  "Keep  back  under  the  trees."  On 
either  side  of  us  the  infantrymen  were  darting  about 
in  the  grove  to  join  their  companies,  and  form  in  columns. 
What  had  seemed  a  camping  party  lolling  under  the  trees 
now  assumed  the  alignments  of  an  army,  but  of  an  army 
pitifully  in  miniature.  None  of  this  might  be  seen  from 
the  prairie,  and  the  grove  betrayed  no  hint  that  a  mon- 
ster of  seven  hundred  fangs  was  crouching  to  spring. 

Then  down  the  lines  rode  the  Commander-in-Chief, 
a  huge  rustic  figure  on  a  gaunt  war  charger.  The 
shabby  white  hat  was  thrust  back  from  his  leonine  coun- 
tenance, and  his  velvet  vest  flapped  open  breezily.  Faded 
snuff-coloured  pantaloons  were  tucked  in  rusty,  mildewed 
boots.  A  ludicrous  contrast  was  his  only  military 
insignia,  which  was  a  sword  in  a  battered  scabbard 
that  dangled  by  rawhide  thongs  from  his  old  leather 
belt.  But  when  he  wheeled,  facing  us,  and  drew  the 
sword,  he  looked  the  stately,  lofty  breathing  barbarian, 
and  needed  nothing  so  little  as  glittering  regimentals. 
The  marks  of  care  and  grief  were  gone  from  his  face,  and 
in  the  relief  of  action  at  last  there  had  come  a  vast 
eagerness  for  fight,  a  recklessness  inspired,  and  yet  a 
deep  and  earnest  patriotism  surcharging  each  muscle 
and  nerve  to  endeavour.  The  "high  wisdom,  deep 
design,  and  art"  of  the  past  heart-breaking  weeks  were 
now  the  sword  arm  only.  With  a  good  conscience  the 
splendid  viking  could  at  last  turn  fighter,  pure  and 


4i4  THE  LONE  STAR 

simple.     The  lust  of  it  quivered  through  his  towering 
frame.     He  started  to  speak: 

"Now  gentlemen  of  the  Army  of  Freedom,  let  us  not 
forget  that 

on  valour's  side  the  odds  of  combat  lie. ' 
Now  is  the  hour  to  conquer,  or  to  fall " 

"Oh,  save  the  time,  general,"  snorted  Old  Man 
Buckalew. 

"Yes,  save  the  time!"  the  Texans  pleaded. 

A  whimsical  light  flashed  in  Houston's  eyes.  "I'm 
glad  I  can,"  he  said. 

He  rode  on  down  the  line,  stopping  only  to  give  orders. 
He  came  to  us,  drawn  up  between  the  two  infantry 
wings.  I  never  thought  to  raise  my  sword  at  salute, 
and  he  looked  me  over  quizzically. 

"See,"  he  exclaimed, 

"'  full  of  Jove,  avenging  Hector  rise! ' 

But  don't  you  think,  most  beauteous  champion, 
that  you'd  look  less  like  a  boy  with  the  mumps,  and 
more  like  a  colonel  of  cavalry  about  to  charge  into  hell's 
abyss,  if  you'd  take  off  that  handkerchief  tied  around 
your  head  ?  " 

"Possibly,"  I  said.     "I  forgot  it  was  there." 

But  the  troopers  did  not  smile,  and  when  I  bared 

that  hole  in  my  cheek,  still  raw  and  trickling  blood, 

even  Houston  quickly  looked  another  way.     I  caught 

his  muttered  exclamation:     "Heaven  help  them  now! 

'  Dire  as  the  monster,  dreadful  as  the  god,' 

that  don't  begin  to  describe  him.     The  boy's  possessed." 
"Your  orders,  if  you  please,  sir,"  I  said. 
"I  wish  you  to  take  position  on  our  extreme  right." 
"And  not  lead  the  centre?"  protested  one  of  the 

troopers. 


"  ONE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DAY  "  4I5 

"You  will  be  opposed  to  the  Mexican  cavalry,"  said 
Houston. 

"Oh,  that's  different." 

"And  you  are  to  be  the  first  to  charge,  Mr.  Ripley, 
to  draw  their  attention  on  yourself.  And  remember! 
boys,"  Houston  added,  "what  old  Frederick  the  Great 
said  about  spurs  being  mightier  than  the  sword.  Now 
go,  get  along  with  you!" 

We  broke  our  formation,  cantered  within  the  edge 
of  the  grove  to  the  extreme  right,  and  drew  up  again, 
facing  the  prairie.  I  glanced  back  along  the  line,  and 
Houston,  like  a  colossal  equestrian  statue  in  advance 
of  the  centre,  waved  his  sword  to  me.  I  raised  forward 
both  spurred  heels,  and  kicked  them  back  into  my 
horse's  flanks.  "Now!11  I  cried,  and  we  burst  upon 
the  open  prairie. 

For  almost  half  the  distance  we  were  hidden  by  a 
timber  motte,  but  this  we  circled  sharply,  and  dashed 
with  the  rush  of  thundering  hoofs  into  full  view  of  the 
Mexican  barricade.  It  was  then  that  we  yelled,  just 
yelled.  It  was  more  soul-terrifying  than  any  yell 
ever  heard.  It  was  revenge  long  nursed,  and  given 
vent  at  last.  That  headlong  charge  was  a  superhuman 
thing.  At  least  I  doubt  if  any  human  power  could 
have  stayed  its  vim  of  demons  unchained.  The  Mexi- 
cans behind  their  barricade  of  luggage  and  under- 
brush were  jumping  up  and  skurrying  about  in  wild 
panic,  while  their  officers  frantically  shouted  orders. 
The  infantrymen  caught  up  muskets.  Gunners  sprang 
to  the  twelve-pounder,  in  the  centre  of  the  barricade, 
and  gave  us  a  volley.  The  cavalry  leaped  astride  horses 
they  were  leading  to  water,  and  came  at  us  pell-mell 
around  the  end  of  their  works.  We  went  through  them 
as  through  a  paper  hoop.  They  broke,  those  who  were 
left,  and  clattered  off  toward  Vince's  bridge.  We  let 


416  THE  LONE  STAR 

them  go;  we  could  attend  to  them  later.  The  Mexican 
bugles  sounded  "No  quarter,"  and  I  saw  the  faces  of 
our  troopers  harden.  "Remember  the  Alamo!" 
screamed  one  man,  hurling  himself  against  the  barri- 
cade. "Yes,  and  Goliad!"  yelled  a  second.  The  cry 
grew  to  a  chorus.  "Remember  Goliad!  Remember 
Goliad!" 

The  blare  of  Mexican  trumpets  rose  higher.  "No 
quarter!"  Then  behind  us  I  heard  a  valiant  fife  and 
drum,  our  fife  and  drum.  They  were  playing,  "Oh,  Will 
You  Come  to  the  Bower?"  And  our  fellows  back  there, 
charging  across  the  prairie,  took  up  the  song  derisively: 

"Will  you  come  to  the  bower  I  have  shaded  for  you?  " 

They  were  coming  by  leaps  and  bounds  through  the 
high  grass,  gripping  their  rifles,  their  ranks  breaking,  the 
whole  long  line  becoming  irregular  as  some  outdistanced 
others,  and  over  the  centre  waved  the  flag  of  the  Lone 
Star.  The  sun  shone  on  the  eager  Texan  faces,  and 
reddened  bared  chests  and  arms.  They  sang  and 
shouted  as  they  came.  Here  was  the  lesson  of  the 
Alamo.  Willingness  to  die,  here  was  the  basic  principle 
of  effectiveness,  and  I  knew  in  my  soul  that  they,  our 
last  armed  force,  must  be  irresistible.  Houston  was 
galloping  up  and  down  in  advance  of  the  line.  The 
line  ducked  to  a  volley  of  muskets  from  the  barricade, 
and  men  flung  rifles  to  their  shoulders.  Houston  swung 
his  arms  wrathfully.  I  could  hear  his  deep  voice 
bellowing  over  the  tumult,  "Damn  you,  hold  your  fire!" 
Whips  were  cracking,  horses  plunging,  and  there  was 
the  swift  rumbling  of  wheels.  Then,  within  eighty 
yards,  our  two  cannon  opened  up,  and  bags  of  canister 
crashed  through  the  barricade.  On  the  left  Sherman 
and  his  men  gained  the  woods  there,  drove  the  Mexicans 
out,  and  came  pounding  on  for  the  breastworks,  now 


"ONE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DAY"  41 7 

firing  when  at  point  blank  range,  first  their  rifles,  then 
their  pistols,  then  clubbing  both.  Deaf  Smith  on  his 
fleet  claybank  was  in  the  lead.  He  rode  for  the  breast- 
work as  for  a  fence.  His  horse  struck,  and  over  he 
came  headfirst,  into  the  thick  of  the  Mexicans.  He 
swept  them  back  with  his  sword,  and  his  sword  broke. 
He  jerked  out  his  pistol,  aimed  it  at  a  Mexican  who 
sprang  at  him  with  a  bayonet.  The  pistol  snapped, 
and  he  hurled  it  in  the  Mexican's  face;  then  closed  in, 
and  wrenched  away  the  bayonet.  His  scouts  were 
leaping  the  barricade,  kicking  over  boxes,  killing  the 
gunners  at  the  twelve-pounder.  Buckalew  was  among 
them,  a  mild  old  porcupine  bristling  fire  and  death. 
Through  another  break  rode  Houston,  weathering 
a  hail  of  bullets,  his  horse  bleeding  and  staggering. 
Up  and  down  the  barricade,  from  one  end  to  the  other, 
our  men  were  tumbling  over. 

The  affair  was  henceforth  more  a  brawl  than  a  battle, 
a  free  hand-to-hand  fight,  the  most  glorious  brawl  in 
all  the  warfare  of  all  the  world.  All  semblance  of 
alignment  was  lost  at  the  first  contact.  Officers,  orders, 
tactics,  were  useless.  Each  Texan  was  a  captain,  as 
Houston  had  promised.  Better  than  that,  he  was  a 
man  in  a  personal  fray.  When  his  rifle  and  pistols  were 
emptied,  he  used  them  as  clubs,  until  they  broke.  Then 
he  unsheathed  his  bowie  knife,  and  sprayed  the  brains 
of  the  nearest  fleeing  Mexican;  then  on  to  the  next, 
with  sweep  after  sweep  of  his  bared  arm.  Over  all  the 
field  every  man  of  the  seven  hundred  was  working  in 
the  same  way,  until  the  high  grass  was  wet  as  after  a 
shower.  They  wrenched  escopetas  from  Mexicans  who 
still  opposed'  them.  They  caught  up  loaded  rifles 
stacked  about  the  camp.  Then  they  used  the 

knives  again. 

Altogether  it  required  just  about  fifteen  minutes  for 


4x8  THE  LONE  STAR 

the  winning  of  Texas.  The  brawl  became  a  chase. 
The  Mexicans  went  running  through  their  camp,  the 
Texans  overtaking  them.  They  toppled  over  tents, 
these  ragged,  barefoot  Texans  who  had  none.  They 
trod  on  camp-fires,  knocking  down  pots  where  meats 
were  still  cooking.  They  muddied  blankets  where 
interrupted  monte  games  were  spread.  They  even 
stumbled  on  men  in  that  assassin  army  hardly  yet 
roused  from  sleep.  On  through  the  camp  went  the 
chase,  individual  killings  at  every  bound.  Mexicans 
fell  on  their  knees,  turned  to  their  pursuers,  threw  up 
their  hands.  The  sweat  was  breaking  into  streams  on 
their  yellow  faces.  ' '  Me  no  Alamo ! ' ' — ' '  Me  no  Goliad ! ' ' 
they  shrieked.  And  the  Texans  over  them,  with  swinging 
knives:  "No  Alamo,  eh?  No  Goliad,  eh?  Go  then, 
go  and  tell  Christ  that!"  Houston,  unhorsed,  with  a 
ball  through  his  ankle,  limped  here  and  there,  trying 
to  stop  the  slaughter.  But  the  Mexicans  were  not 
surrendering.  They  were  running.  They  rushed  into 
the  swamp  on  the  south,  and  mired  there,  and  Were 
slain,  or  taken  alive.  The  puddles  of  water  in  the  marsh 
turned  reddish.  Hundreds  fled  on  to  Boggy  Bayou 
behind  their  camp,  and  in  they  plunged,  filling  the 
mudhole  with  floundering  bodies.  Those  crowding 
after  passed  over  the  mass.  In  a  little  fringe  of  timber 
Colonel  Almonte  gathered  three  hundred  together,  and 
brought  them  out,  and  formally  surrendered — to  ten 
Texans  who  happened  to  be  near.  And  these  ten 
Texans  marched  the  three  hundred  back  to  our  camp. 

Of  the  lancers  and  dragoons,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
Mexicans  on  foot  who  headed  north,  only  a  few  ever 
reached  Vince's  Bayou.  There  they  found  the  bridge 
gone.  We  of  the  horse  took  after  them  the  moment  we 
saw  there  was  no  more  need  of  us  on  the  field  itself. 
We  cut  them  down  along  the  whole  course  of  eight  miles, 


"ONE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DAY"  4I9 

even  to  the  edge  of  the  stream's  perpendicular  bank. 
A  number  of  dragoons  frantically  spurred  their  horses 
over  the  cliff,  and  we  shot  them  in  the  water  until  the 
bayou  was  running  crimson. 

Every  man  of  our  seven  hundred,  I  know,  wanted 
most  of  all,  fromfirst  to  last,  only  to  lay  eyes  on  the  arch- 
assassin  himself.  But  that  craven  soul  had  taken  good 
care  to  run  in  time.  My  troopers  muttered  their 
chagrin  as  they  beat  the  grass  along  Vince's,  but  it  was 
growing  dark,  and  we  had  to  give  up  the  hunt.  There 
was  no  Santa  Ana  for  us,  that  day.  I  may  say  that  we 
passed  near  the  double  log  house,  and  a  number  of  the 
troopers  searched  it,  but  found  only  Nan  and  the  other 
Texan  women  there.  I  myself  did  not  go  near.  It 
never  entered  my  head  that  now  I  might  see  Nan.  I 
did  not  realise  that  the  battle  was  over,  and  that  I,  who 
had  consigned  myself  to  death,  and  expected  to  die, 
was  still  alive. 

But,  miraculous  or  not,  as  a  matter  of  fact  we  were 
all  still  alive,  except  two  killed  on  the  field  and  six  who 
later  died  of  their  wounds.  Of  these  eight,  four  were 
officers.  Against  a  loss  of  eight  men,  and  possibly 
thirty  wounded,  we  counted  the  full  number  of  our 
little  army  in  Mexicans  slain.  San  Jacinto  had  evened 
the  score.  For  each  Texan  previously  killed  in  battle, 
or  murdered,  we  had  that  day  taken  a  Mexican  life. 
As  many  again  we  held  prisoners,  and  of  these  pris- 
oners, two  out  of  every  seven  were  badly  wounded. 
The  total  Mexican  loss  coincided  almost  to  a  man, 
with  the  entire  Mexican  force  in  the  field,  and  this  force 
was  double  our  own.  Such  a  thing  is  not  recorded 
often  in  the  annals  of  war,  but  at  least  it  had  happened 
this  once. 

No  one  may  wonder,  then,  that  when  we  rode  back  to 
camp,  we  found  the  tattered  Army  of  Freedom  rejoicing 


420  THE  LONE  STAR 

to  the  top  of  their  lungs,  in  the  abandon  of  every  con- 
ceivable devilish  antic.  They  threaded  single  file  among 
the  trees,  each  man  with  a  lighted  candle  taken  from  the 
Mexican  stores.  The  scene  was  like  an  enchanted  grove, 
given  over  to  weird  boisterous  revelry.  Dancing  forms 
joined  hands  around  blazing  fires.  They  flung  terrified 
prisoners  into  the  circle,  and  sang  and  hooted  and  blew 
deafening  blasts  of  "No  quarter"  on  the  enemy's  own 
bugles.  They  draped  Mexican  mules  in  the  sashes  of 
Mexican  officers.  "Sanf  Ana!  Here's  Sant'  Ana!" 
they  yelled  at  each  dashing  uniform,  until  the  captives 
tore  off  their  epaulettes.  But  even  so,  these  assassins  at 
our  mercy  would  not  have  chosen  the  Goliad  precedent. 
And  even  so,  we  were  taking  care  of  their  wounded, 
two  hundred  and  over. 

The  Army  of  Freedom  gathered  us  of  the  cavalry 
to  its  bosom,  and  made  us  one  with  the  riotous  jubilance. 
By  us  I  mean  my  troopers,  not  myself.  They  did  in- 
deed crowd  around  me  in  the  dark,  and  those  who  had 
let  me  lead  them  were  the  foremost.  They  started 
to  hail  my  name,  to  slap  me  on  the  back,  to  throw  their 
arms  around  me,  but  something  checked  the  impulse 
and  hushed  their  rough  enthusiasm.  They  had  a  quick 
second  thought,  and  drew  apart.  They  seemed  to 
remember  their  feeling  of  queerness  in  aught  that  con- 
cerned me,  and  left  me  to  myself,  though  hovering  near 
with  their  first  impulse  still  on  them.  I  knew  the  sting 
of  it  now,  though  I  had  not  before.  But  now  I  would 
have  given  a  great  deal  to  be  slapped  on  the  back.  In- 
•tead  I  was  alone,  and  when  Yappe  came,  I  went  with 
him  to  the  little  camp-fire  he  had  ready  for  me,  and 
flung  myself  on  the  grass.  Here  Deaf  Smith  found  me, 
and  pushed  his  way  through  my  men  who  stood  awk- 
wardly about.  I  jumped  up  and  took  his  hand.  Then 
came  Old  Man  Buckalew,  and  there  was  his  hand  too. 


431 

He  turned  me  round  so  that  the  fire  lighted  my  face,  and 
he  beamed  up  at  me  through  his  tortoise-shell  specs. 
His  expression  changed,  and  yet  not  as  I  had  come  to 
dread  in  all  men  who  looked  at  me. 

"  W'y,  young  Rip— Harry  1"  he  cried.  "  W'y,  what's 
the  matter,  boy?  You're  changed.  You've  gone  all 
to  pieces.  You're  dripping  tears  all  down  your  cheeks. 
Bless  my  heart,  if  you  ain't  crying  I" 

And  I  suppose  I  was.  The  quiet,  dangerous,  ugly 
thing  had  gone  out  of  me  entirely.  Oh,  it  had  all  been 
so  cruel,  so  needless,  on  both  sides! 

The  troopers  gathered  nearer.  By  the  light  of  the 
fire  they  stared  at  me  in  wonder,  and  their  eyes  grew 
big  and  round.  Well,  no  doubt  1  was  a  soft  specimen, 
and  it  must  have  been  difficult  for  them  to  place  the 
uncanny  demon  who  had  led  them  into  Hell.  Then  their 
expressions  began  to  change  too,  just  as  Buckalew's 
had.  One  let  forth  a  joyous  shout.  Another's  open 
palm  crashed  between  my  shoulders.  The  whole 
camp  seemed  to  be  running  toward  us.  They  shoved 
and  jostled,  and  gave  their  impulses  free  leave.  I 
might  have  been  just  a  pet  of  the  regiment,  a  luck? 
mascot.  But  my  heartstrings  were  all  pulling  and 
tugging,  and  I  was  swallowing  the  tears  thick  and 
fast.  I  protested,  squirmed,  and  was  immeasurably 
embarrassed,  but  whether  or  no,  they  hoisted  me  in  air, 
and  I  felt  myself  tossing  on  a  sea  of  upstretched  hands, 
and  being  passed  along  over  their  heads.  It  was  as 
though  they  had  loved  me  very  dearly  in  years  gone  by, 
and  had  just  found  me  again. 

"To  Sam  Houston  with  him!"  The  shout  rose  above 
the  storm  of  yells.  "To  Sam  Houston  with  Colonel 
Rip.  To  Sam  Houston  with  him!" 

Well,  that  jaw  of  mine  went  softening  like  a  babe's, 
and  quivering  like  a  mound  of  jelly.  And  a  sorry  sight 


4aa,  '  THE  LONE  STAR 

1  must  have  been  as  they  dropped  me  on  my  feet  under 
the  live-oak  of  the  Commander-in-Chief.  Houston  lay 
on  the  ground,  stretched  on  a  blanket,  with  one  dilapi- 
dated boot  cut  off,  and  the  leg  swollen  and  bandaged 
to  the  knee.  But  he  was  breathing  deep,  and  his 
splendid  eyes  were  ablaze  with  happiness.  That  day 
he  had  won  back  his  place  among  men.  He  was  all 
kindness  as  he  saw  my  state,  and  his  manner,  as  he 
reached  forth  his  hand,  was  whole-souled  and  hearty. 
He  smiled  and  nodded  at  the  cheering,  and  the  grip  of 
his  ringers  set  my  heart  to  pounding  like  a  thousand 
cannon. 

"If  you  please,  general,"  I  said,  "I've  come — that 
K,  I  would  have  come — to  resign." 

Protests  dinned  in  my  ears,  and  Houston  looked  at 
«ne  blankly. 

"At  least,"  r  said,  "I  take  it  that  there  's  no  longer 
any  orders  to  bind  me." 

"No,  but  why  the  devil  must  you  resign,  sir?" 

"I'm  just,  just  sick,  You  know,  when  a  man  gets 
back  from — from  Hell,  he's  liable  to  feel  that  way." 

"Now,  by  the  god  of  battles,  what  a  notion!" 

"And  I  want  no  more  of  it  unless — unless  I  have  to, 
Besides,  sir,  I'm  not  fitted." 

His  cheeks  puffed,  and  then  he  exploded. 

"But  you  can't  live  this  thing  down,"  he  cried, 
"They're  bound  to  make  you  something.  Jove,  they'll 
make  you " 

"But  after  you,  general,  after  you,"  they  yelled, 
"We  want  you  first,  and  then  comes  Colonel  Rip." 

The  blood  in  my  cheeks  pricked  like  needles,  but  if 
they  meant  statesmanship,  I  thought  how  shabbily  I 
had  proved  in  that  too. 

"No,  no,"  I  said.     "I'm  not  fitted  there  either." 

"Which,"  observed  Houston, " will  set  Fate  staggering 


"  ONE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DAY  "  423 

to  match  irony,  for  it  will  be  the  irony  of  the  people's 
choice." 

"And  we'll  risk  it,"  shouted  a  trooper. 

"See  there,"  said  Houston. 

"At  any  rate,"  I  demanded,  "you  accept  my  resigna- 
tion? I  should  like  to  go  back  to  my  headlight  league," 
I  added,  and  I  was  thinking  of  Nan  too,  "that  is,  of 
course,  provided  the  Republic  thinks  I  have  earned  a 
headright  league." 

"No  doubt  about  that,  and  fifty  of  them,"  Houston 
replied,  "only,  none  of  us  have  quite  proved  title  yet." 

"  But  this  victory  to-day,  sir,  doesn't  that  prove — 

"Let  us  hope  so,  but  we  haven't  cornered  Sant'  Ana 
yet.  If  we  had — Well,  we  haven't  though,  since 

'the  great  ^Eneas  fled  too  fast.' 

There's  still  four  or  five  thousand  more  Mexicans  in 
Texas,  and  so  we'll  need  every— 

"Then  of  course  I'll  stay,  sir.  But  Mr.  Buckalew 
and  a  few  others  of  us  want  to  get  leave  for  to-night  and 
to-morrow." 

"Well,  write  the  permits  yourself." 

"About  Santa  Ana  now,  would  his  capture  end  this 

thing?" 

"Most  certainly.  He  would  order  the  balance 
of  his  armies  out  of  Texas.  Why  do  you  ask? 

What " 

"Nothing,  exactly.  But  Mr.  Buckalew  wishes  to  see 
his  daughter,  and  as  she's  at  Vince's,  and  as  the  few 
Mexicans  we  haven't  taken  yet  no  doubt  ran  that  way, 
why,  just  perhaps " 

"I  see,  just  perhaps.     But  I  have  given  orders 
scour  all  that  country  in  the  morning." 

"Still,  we  are  going  to-night,  sir." 

"I  see  again,"  said  Houston,  smiling.     "And  she  s 


424  THE  LONE  STAR 

a  marvellous  little  Redlander  girl,  too.  Oh,  I  remember 
her,  quite  well.  But  at  the  time,  Colonel,  you  seemed 
rather  afraid  of  her,  eh?" 

"I  am  only  going  to  show  her  father  the  place," 
I  replied. 

"Oh,  I  see!"  exclaimed  Houston.  "Jove,  it's  re- 
markable how  much  I  do  see,  to-night." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

CONCLUSION 

VTT E  STARTED  for  Vince's  as  soon  as  I  left  General 
Houston.  Our  party  incuded  Buckalew,  Deaf 
Smith,  three  or  four  scouts,  Yappe,  and  myself,  all  of  us 
mounted.  Half-way  there  we  saw  a  lantern  bobbing 
toward  us  along  the  dark  road,  and  a  little  nearer,  a 
clear,  sparkling  voice  challenged  us  out  of  the  night. 
The  voice  was  Nan's.  She  was  on  foot,  with  only  Deaf 
Smith's  wife  and  several  others  of  the  women  whom 
she  had  persuaded  to  come.  She  had  seen  the  terrified 
Mexicans  fleeing  past  Vince's  house,  and  deciding  that 
we  had  won  a  victory,  she  could  wait  no  longer.  At 
once  she  was  in  her  father's  arms,  and  making  sure  that 
he  was  uninjured. 

"And  you,  Harry?  And  you?"  she  questioned,  and 
as  on  another  occasion  she  stretched  a  hand  to  me 
across  the  old  man's  shoulder.  "Here,  Daddy,  that's 
enough.  Let  me  have  that  lantern." 

She  took  the  lantern,  and  held  it  to  my  face.  I  was 
glad  of  the  light,  that  I  might  see  her;  and  I  saw  now 
what  I  had  no  eyes  for  the  evening  before,  such  as  the 
beauty  of  her  face  wreathed  so  alluringly  in  the  black 
lace  of  her  mantilla.  It  was  the  same  tender,  ravishing 
vision  that  had  appeared  behind  the  bars  of  a  window, 
and  had  halted  me  that  night  in  the  streets  of  San 
Antonio.  And  as  later,  at  the  fandango,  here  was  the 
petite  queenliness  and  independence  of  her  slender  figure 
crowned  by  the  high  Spanish  comb,  which  hoisted  up 
the  mantilla  in  a  particularly  disconcerting  and  rakish 

4*5 


426  THE  LONE  STAR 

manner.  She  gave  me  one  quick,  anxious  look,  and 
once  again  I  heard  her  voice  in  that  sweetest  timbre, 
as  of  an  angel  leaning  over  the  parapet  of  Heaven. 

"Oh,  oh,"  she  half  sobbed,  "that  poor  cheek  is  bleed- 
ing yet.  We  must  hurry  back  to  the  house.  But 
hurry — only  hurry,  dear." 

The  last  word  just  slipped  out,  I  know.  But  out  it 
came  so  naturally,  as  though  she  had  always  thought  of 
me  so,  that  I  bore  up  under  it  as  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world,  despite  the  thrill  that  went  through  me. 

"All  right,"  I  said,  thinking  I  might  as  well  exact 
terms,  "but  if  you  will  let  me  lift  you  on  my  horse." 

"No,  no,  you  cannot  walk." 

"In  front  of  me,  I  meant." 

"Oh!"  And  yet  that  is  the  way  we  arranged  it. 
Of  course,  one  of  us  might  have  taken  Yappe's  horse, 
but  we  did  not  happen  to  think  of  that. 

Back  at  Vince's  there  was  once  more  Nan's  basin  of 
cool  water,  and  the  tearing  of  bandages,  and  the  bathing 
of  that  cheek  of  mine,  where  the  hole  was  like  the  red 
ghastly  eye  of  a  Cyclop.  As  Nan  leaned  over  me,  work- 
ing busily — and  her  face  was  very  close  to  mine — I 
ventured  an  uneasy  glance  toward  Nan's  father.  I 
could  sense  the  bristling  of  the  porcupine,  the  gathering 
of  the  crabbed  storm.  As  yet,  though,  sheer  bewilder- 
ment had  him  fast,  and  he  was  blinking  at  us  through 
the  tortoise-shell  specs.  I  laughed  to  myself  for  pure 
ecstasy,  but  I  knew  the  outburst  was  coming,  and 
wished  it  were  over  with.  At  last  he  opened  his  lips 
and — closed  them.  Then  he  stalked  up  and  down 
awhile,  his  cheeks  puffing  like  a  bellows,  and  Nan  all 
the  time  with  her  back  to  him,  working  unconsciously. 
Finally  he  stopped  short,  decisively,  and  glared  at  us. 

"  Look  here — you,  young  Rip — I'm  out-and-out  obliged 
to  you,  for  that  little  catamou't  has  been  the  torment  of 


CONCLUSION  427 

my  life,  and  now  there'll  be  some  peace  on  the  ranch — 
on  my  ranch,  I  mean." 

Whereat  Nan  swung  round,  and  flung  her  arms  about 
his  neck. 

"  Some  peace  on  the  ranch,"  he  kept  blustering  through 
his  shaggy  moustache,  trying  to  convince  himself,  and 
us,  of  what  a  pleasant  prospect  he  had,  "Some  peace 
on  the  ranch." 

"Better  wait  till  the  war's  over,"  suggested  Deaf 
Smith. 

"But  isn't  it?"  exclaimed  Nan, 

"Well,  hardly.  Not  while  Sant'  Ana  is  loose  some- 
where in  Texas." 

"What,"  demanded  Nan,  in  a  tone  that  put  us  all  at 
attention,  "what  would  you  do  with  him?" 

"String  him  up  like  the  mad  dog  he  is,"  said 
Buckalew. 

"But  I  can't  deliver  anybody  over  to  death,"  said 
Nan  simply. 

"You?"  ejaculated  her  father,  "Now  what  do  you 
know  about  Sant'  Ana?" 

Deaf  Smith  stepped  in  front  of  her. 

"Tell  us,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Nan,"  I  pleaded,  "if  we  could  get  him  once,  he'd 
order  all  his  armies  out  of  Texas  to  save  himself.  Don't 
you  see  we  wouldn't  hang  him?  He's  too  valuable." 

"You  mean  it?" 

Deaf  Smith  gripped  her  arm.     "Of  course,"  he  said. 

Then  she  told  us.  A  Mexican  fugitive  had  crawled 
to  the  kitchen  window  on  hands  and  knees  only  a  few 
hours  before.  She  was  alone  there  at  the  time,  baking 
the  first  wheat  bread  we  had  had  in  months,  which  she 
intended  for  her  father.  The  other  women  were  in  the 
front  part  of  the  house.  Still,  there  was  no  danger. 


428  THE  LONE  STAR 

The  fugitive  -was  too  low,  too  cringing,  to  so  much  as 
lift  his  eyes  to  her.  But  she  recognised  in  him  the  cruel 
and  powerful  voluptuary  of  the  fandango.  He  was 
whining  now.  He  had  escaped  from  the  field  of  San 
Jacinto.  But  he  had  found  the  bridge  destroyed,  and 
could  go  no  further.  For  the  love  of  the  Virgin,  of  the 
saints,  would  she  not  hide  him  there  in  the  house  from 
the  pitiless  Texans? 

"Where  did  you  hide  him  then?"  her  father 
interrupted. 

"As  though  she  would  tell  you, if  shehad,"  I  protested, 

"Or  as  if  I'd  hide  one  of  our  enemies  in  the  first 
place,"  said  she. 

"But  where  is  he  then?     Where  is  he?" 

"Why  Daddy,  I  don't  know.  He  crawled  away  on 
his  hands  and  knees,  like  he  came." 

"A  lot  you've  told  us,  after  all." 

But  Deaf  Smith  snatched  up  a  lantern,  and  every 
man  of  us  followed  him  out.  All  night  long  we  beat  the 
bushes,  little  by  little  spreading  from  the  house  as  a 
centre.  Morning  came,  and  we  had  found  only  a  dead 
body  here  and  there,  and  one,  of  a  common  soldier,  that 
was  stripped  of  jacket  and  pantaloons.  We  went  back 
and  mounted,  and  continued  as  before.  We  had, 
though,  about  lost  hope,  and  were  working  our  way 
along  Buffalo  Bayou  toward  camp,  when  Yappe  off 
at  one  end  gave  a  yell,  rushed  excitedly  to  something  he 
had  seen  in  the  high  grass,  and  jumped  from  his  horse. 
We  galloped  to  him,  and  saw  that  the  object  in  the  grass 
was  a  man  with  a  blanket  thrown  over  his  head.  A 
hand  was  thrust  from  under  the  blanket,  which  had 
seized  Yappe's  honest  black  hand  and  carried  it  to  the 
man's  lips.  Deaf  Smith  tore  off  the  blanket,  and  the 
man  hid  his  face  in  his  arm.  We  drew  back,  muttering 
our  disappointment,  because  the  fugitive  was  garbed 


CONCLUSION  4a9 

like  a  common  soldier,  in  black-glazed  cap,  blue-cotton 
jacket,  and  white  manta  pantaloons. 

"  Hump  now.    Show  yourself,"  Buckalew  ordered  him. 

"I'm  only  a  poor  soldier,"  the  fellow  whined  in 
Spanish. 

"Maybe  so,  with  a  fine  linen  shirt,"  said  Buckalew. 

"And  diamond  studs  in  it,"  added  Deaf  Smith. 

"Get  up!" 

But  he  had  to  be  lifted  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and 
his  arm  wrenched  aside,  and  then  he  raised  a  face  to  us 
mottled  in  purple  and  yellow,  with  all  other  shades 
coming  and  going.  His  eyes,  like  large  black  beads, 
were  shrinking  and  currish  and  fawning.  He  grabbed 
frantically  at  Buckalew's  hand,  he  being  the  nearest, 
and  tried  to  mouth  it.  The  old  man  leaped  back  as 
from  the  fang  of  a  serpent. 

"You  slobbering  rat,"  he  cried.  "Try  to  come  your 
old  filthy  tricks  on  me,  do  you?  The  Medina  over  again, 
eh?  Think  you'll  turn  the  tables  on  me  another  time, 
eh?  But  there's  no  generalissimo  nor  nothing  around 
to  save  your  carcass  now,  understand?  There's  no 
doubts  about  your  being  walloped  solid  and  sure  this 
once,  understand?  But  maybe  you'd  like  to  get  an- 
other ransom  out  of  me,  eh?  And  insult  another  good 
woman,  eh?  And  force  me  to  choke  you  again,  eh, 
until  you  kept  your  bargain?  About  my  story  of  the 
Medina,  now,  you  don't  like  it,  I  understand.  Put  me 
on  your  proscribed  list,  I  understand.  Well,  well,  it's 
a  good  story  just  the  same,  and  I'm  wondering  how 
you'll  like  the  sequel.  The  sequel  to  Goliad,  too,  by 
the  way." 

Buckalew  raised  his  pistol.  I  had  drawn  my  own 
already,  involuntarily,  for  here  was  Phil's  murderer, 
and  the  murderer  of  those  other  four  hundred  boys  at 
Goliad.  I  wished  that  I  had  killed  him.  I  can't 


430  THE  LONE  STAR 

help  but  wish  to  this  day  that  I  had  killed  him.  No 
cowardly  brutal  monster  ever  deserved  it  more. 
Yet  some  impulse  made  me  drop  my  weapon,  and  catch 
Buckalew's  hand.  To  preserve  this  assassin  meant 
saving  our  fellows  from  a  battle  against  four  or  five 
thousand  Mexicans.  Perhaps  it  meant  saving  Texas. 
I  don't  care  to  speak  of  sacrifices,  but  to  drop  my  pistol 
and  turn  Buckalew's  was  the  greatest  sacrifice  of  my 
life.  The  cringing  hound  was  trying  to  buy  us  off  too, 
and  that  made  it  unutterably  harder.  Deaf  Smith 
and  the  rest  of  us  struggled  with  the  raging  Buckalew. 

"Here  now,  here,"  pleaded  Deaf  Smith,  knowing  that 
no  force  could  be  permanent  against  the  old  man's 
fury,  "here  now,  there's  no  better  way  to  even  up  with 
the  whole  Mex'can  nation  than  by  sending  this  curse 
back  among  'em." 

Buckalew  slowly  began  to  quiet  down.  "Oh,"  he 
said,  "oh,  that  would  be  too  dam'  cynical  a  revenge, 
Deaf.  Oh,  oh — but  still,  they  deserve  it." 

We  took  the  "unconquered  Napoleon  of  the  West"  into 
camp,  We  even  let  him  ride,  after  he  had  exasperated 
us  with  his  complaints  of  sore  feet.  He  still  had  on  the 
red-worsted  slippers  he  had  worn  during  his  unlucky 
siesta  the  afternoon  before.  It  was  what  he  got,  we 
told  him,  for  being  in  such  a  hurry  to  run  that  he  could 
not  put  on  his  boots.  Next  he  cursed  the  wayward 
destiny  that  had  toppled  him  from  his  pedestal  of 
greatness. 

"But  wasn't  it  so's  you  could  notice  that  the  Texians 
had  something  to  do  with  it?"  Buckalew  asked  in 
disgust,  "I  reckon,  though,  you  wasn't  loafing  round 
to  notice  'em  much.  But  wait,  oh  just  wait,  till  they 
see  you  now." 

The  shifty  black  eyes  roved  in  new  terror.  Every 
step  of  the  way  he  begged  us  to  keep  his  identity  secret 


CONCLUSION  43I 

until  the  great  and  chivalrous  General  Houston  coull 
set  a  guard  to  protect  him.  The  noble  General  Hous- 
ton, he  constantly  assured  himself,  would  be  generous 
to  a  defeated  enemy.  With  which  we  referred  him  to 
the  chivalry  of  the  victors  at  the  Alamo  and  Goliad. 
However,  we  could  not  indulge  Justice,  though  we 
fairly  ached  to  see  justice  done,  and  we  brought  our 
captive  to  General  Houston  before  the  Texans  crowding 
around  us  could  learn  who  he  was. 

Thus  the  meeting  between  the  master  adversaries, 
which  long  since  in  imagination  I  had  required  as  the 
superb  dramatic  thing,  came  to  pass  after  all.  But 
this  meeting  of  the  vainglorious  dictator  of  Mexico, 
now  servile  and  fawning,  and  the  theatric  Sam  Houston 
lying  on  a  blanket  under  his  live-oak,  this  meeting  is 
a  picture  that  spreads  beyond  my  canvas.  But  imagina- 
tion need  not  be  hedged  within  the  frame  here  set.  And 
it  will  not  be,  either,  for  there's  nothing  more  alluring, 
more  exquisitely  satisfying,  than  this  coup  of  poetic 
justice  actually  accorded  us  as  a  cold  fact  of  history. 
It  was  the  personal  equation  between  race  and  race, 
long  since  predestined,  and  now  eternally  demonstrated. 
Under  the  live-oak  Texas  passed  to  us.  just  as  she  was 
bound  to  do  from  the  very  first.  And  I  thank  the 
Creator  of  men  for  that,  but  most  of  all,  I  thank  Him 
for  this  little  matter  of  the  personal  equation. 


\r^\ 


